For I Do Not Fear The Dark
by englishbutter
Summary: The winter has been one of the harshest in living memory, and Sigyn knows that not all of her family will live through it. So when a blue-skinned and red-eyed monster comes in the dead of night with an offer beyond her wildest imagination, Sigyn has no choice but accept. A Logyn retelling of the Scandinavian fairytale East of the Sun, and West of the Moon.
1. Chapter One — The Monster

_Now. I must move now. I cannot wait for any longer._

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><p><strong>Chapter One — The Monster<strong>

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><p>My mother has the longest memory that I know of, and she has said to all of us a thousand times over that this winter is the worst one she has ever seen. It started snowing in October, and even I, blessed with an excellent memory, can never recall such an early snowfall. The cold weather is yet another blow after much of our harvest was washed out by a heavy rainstorm in mid-September. The morning when we woke up to the pounding rain on the hide-covered roof will be burnt into my memory forever. Hnoss, the youngest of my six sisters and just shy of fourteen, had woken up first. She had never quite grown out of waking up early like my other sisters and I.<p>

"Father! Mother!" she calls. "Look at the rain! It's falling so hard…."

Her voice rang through our tiny wood and stone house, a single room separated only by wicker walls that are more like screens than anything else, keeping the work and food area isolated from the place where the nine of us sleep. My mother and father share the good bed; my sisters and I sleep on the three straw mattresses pushed against the wall, huddled together like a litter of kittens sharing in each other's warmth.

"Rain?" Father asks.

Hnoss nods, her blonde curls bouncing in excitement. "Lots. Buckets of rain." She wiggles her fingers to illustrate.

I don't think she quite understands the implications of what heavy rain means for us — a family who relies on the harvest to survive through the year.

My father sprints to the door, pausing only to pull on his shoes and a shirt whilst the rest of us sit upright.

"Heavy rain?" the second oldest of my sisters, Lofn, mutters furiously, jamming her feet into her own shoes. "It can't! Not this close to harvest!"

Vár, who my sisters and I have all agreed takes the pessimistic view on life more often than she should, says, "The weather doesn't care. We should hurry; salvage what we can."

"What is it?" Hnoss asks. "It can't be that bad for the harvest. I mean, everything's underground, isn't it? Why would the carrots care?"

No one answers her. We all follow Father out of the door, sprinting through the rain to the three flooded fields we own that cover a total of two-and-a-half acres. The leftmost field is maybe two hundred metres or so away from the wood that surrounds our land, and it is to this field that I head. Hnoss follows me, and comprehension seems to dawn on her face as she sees how urgently we are scrabbling in the mud, and the crops that have been overturned by the rain.

"Sigyn, what is it?" Hnoss demands as I wipe my muddy hands above my cheek before I return to work. I pick up four carrots by my feet. They have been torn from the earth, their roots broken and bent in every which direction. There are more carrots around my feet, swimming in the mud. The rain beats against my back, soaking me to the skin.

"Hnoss, get the baskets!" my father calls through the rain. It is so heavy I cannot see him. Hnoss runs off to the house and I crouch back down in the mud, gathering all the carrots I can into a pile, regardless of their state. Some are beyond saving, withered and broken, and they will rot soon. Some will survive to be reburied, and hopefully they will regrow their roots.

Hnoss drops a basket at my side and I stuff the carrots into it, hurrying back and forth to the house and dumping them on the floor before I return to the rain. It stops raining an hour later and the sun comes out, but the eight of us work all through the morning, gathering every last piece of our harvest that we can. It is nearly mid-afternoon when we are finished and trudge back inside. We rush to the fire my mother has built, dripping and looking for all the worlds like drowned rats as we strip off our outer layers and lay them on the stone boxing the firepit in. I hang my dress on the bar hanging over the top that supports the cooking pot, and the flames hiss as drops of water roll off.

But it is my father who stands back, not taking the indulgence of the heat, and he looks for the worst of us. He leans against the far wall, his shoulders curved as if they are under a great weight, and his head is in his hands. "We've lost so much," he whispers. "Norns, we've lost so much of it."

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><p>We lost half of our harvest because of the rain, and what we did manage to salvage and replant is hardly enough to feed our family of nine. I asked Father once why there are so many of us, and he laughed.<p>

"Little Sigyn," he had said, "do you know what is the most powerful number in this universe?"

I had shaken my head. I had been a child of barely four, all amber eyes and caramel cowslip curls.

It was my oldest sister Gefjun, who was seven at the time, who answered the question. "Nine."

Father had nodded. "Nine. And so, with the power of the number nine, it is said that great fortune and luck will rule over our family. And that is why you have six siblings." He had tapped the tip of my nose.

"They're annoying siblings," I had giggled, grasping at his hand.

Lofn had clipped me on the back of the head for that.

Times had been much easier fourteen years ago. We had been wealthy enough then. My mother had been a practiced sorceress before she had had the accident that had broken her magic. After that, we had lost half of the source of our family's income — I was eleven when Mother's spell stole more energy than she could provide and destroyed something within her. That blow is felt this winter. I think she blames herself for our position sometimes, for sometimes when I lay awake at night, I hear her quiet sobs.

I suppose the weather tonight is suitable for the beginning of a story such as this. It is always on one of the coldest nights of winter that something strange happens, and it is no different for my story.

Tonight is one of the most bitterly cold nights of my memories. We managed to gather enough wood from the forest that we could find a few decent branches, strip off the wet bark and then put them into the firepit. But fire is a hungry thing, and our supply of branches is dwindling alarmingly. Syn feeds another branch into the fire from where she is seated by the pile. The rest of us are curled together under our five threadbare blankets as my mother melts snow for our potato stew. Sjöfn, who is one year younger than me, is making stock in the second pot over the fire using the bones of the only chicken we had left. We had had little choice regarding the hen, and she had just become too old to lay eggs. None of our chickens had for a long time, but Hnoss had managed to persuade us to eat this particular hen last. She hasn't had a bite of her though, and the part of me that isn't currently ruled by my aching stomach feels sorry for her.

My family is all dangerously underweight. I can trace the valleys created by my ribs when I lie on my back, and Hnoss' I can see when she stands. Her shoulders as well are bony and prominent, and her face, in the right light, looks like a skull. None of us are any better, and I myself haven't bled for nearly two months. But that's the funny thing about hunger: after a while, the ache in your stomach is almost a companion, and when you finally get to eat, it feels almost odd.

"In King Odin's hall," Syn says into the silence as she pokes at the fire, "they have a boar, Sæhrímnir his name. It is said that he is slaughtered every night, and that there is always enough meat to fill even the biggest of stomachs. And then, Sæhrímnir is brought back to life for the next feast the following night, and then the one after that, and then the one after."

"Don't be silly," Vár says, miserable. "They don't have something as wonderful as that. It's just a story, isn't it, Father?"

Out of all of us, only my mother and father have visited the city of Asgard, and only my father has feasted in King Odin's company after he was called to duty in the army.

As expected, he shakes his head and hugs Syn close, rubbing her arm. "No, Sæhrímnir is just a story, but a good one. Imagine what we could do with an immortal boar."

_Eat_, I think, _and then sell what ever we couldn't eat._

The thought sends a shiver of delight coursing through me, and judging from the expressions on everyone else's faces, it is a thought mirrored elsewhere.

The two bangs on the door makes all of us jump. Thoughts of Sæhrímnir vanish as I frown in puzzlement. I think that it must have been the wind; no one in their right mind would come knocking at this time of night, much less in this weather and when the two-foot deep snow blankets the land for miles and miles around. Our nearest neighbour also is a forty minute walk away.

"Sigyn," my mother says, still stirring the contents of the pot, "could you get that, my love?"

She is not convinced that it is the wind.

The childish part of me wants to protest, because surely my share of the blankets will be taken by my sisters should I leave the bundle, but my mother's gaze is one of steel. I have little choice but to extract myself somewhat gingerly from the pile. The cold air is like a punch in my chest, and I suck in a breath, holding it in as I wait for the air to warm. It gets a little easier to breathe after that, and I shuffle towards the door, rubbing my hands together before I dare to brave the knob. I wrap my hand in my sleeve, grasp the handle with only the very tips of my fingers, and turn it.

The night is dark, and for a second I am convinced that the wind was indeed the culprit for the noise. I am annoyed that it has made me give up my hard won spot in the huddle of blankets, but then there is a shift to my left.

I gasp, stumbling back from the threshold as I see the man, no, the _creature_ standing in the night.

I have heard of the frost giants — and this monster, even if it is shorter than I was expecting, is by no doubt such a thing. I am unprepared for it. It is all I can do to scramble back as the monster eyes me flatly, its gaze the red of blood spilt on the snow, its skin the blue of frostbitten flesh, and the dark, parallel lines running in sets of three over its ludicrously bare chest, arms, and face speak of some ancient meaning that is lost to me. It is wrapped in a fur-lined cloak that blows behind it in the wind, and finely made leather trousers, reinforced with scale mail on the thighs, are its only other piece of clothing — even its feet are bare.

"Get away," I say sharply, backing away as the monster advances on the doorstep and sets foot inside my home. Frost spikes from under its feet, coating the floorboards and even cracking the wood in one place. My mother gives a frightened little scream, and my father jumps to his feet, grabbing our rusting cast-iron skillet from the bar and wielding it like a club. The frost giant seems unconcerned with my parents, and instead it eyes me and my sisters. Gefjun ushers me back to the huddle and I retreat, eager to be within the safety of my sisters.

"Get out, monster," my father barks, jabbing at the frost giant with the skillet.

The frost giant ignores the skillet, and instead addresses my father as if it were an invited guest holding nothing more than pleasant conversation:

"I want your third born daughter."

My heart turns to ice, and my stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles. My sisters turn to look at me with huge eyes, hugging me closer.

"No," little Hnoss whispers. "No."

The frost giant's lip curls. Every one of its teeth are pointed, and I think how of easily it must tear off the flesh of its victims with them. I wonder if that is what it plans to do with me. I will not let it do anything to me. I will never let it.

"No," my mother says viciously. She stands tall as she continues, "You will be gone from here at this instant." Although her magic may be nothing like it once was, broken beyond repair, the comforting blue glow lights the tips of her fingers.

The frost giant tilts its head to the side, looking at the magic without so much as a hint of an expression in its face. I wonder if it is afraid of the magic; the jotnar are a primitive, backwards, barbaric people, so I would not be surprised if it is.

"Please," the frost giant says after a few seconds of silence, its gravelly voice low and much gentler than I had been expecting, "that will not be necessary, my lady."

I stare, stunned. Frost giants were the villains of the stories I grew up on and they never were polite like this one has been. It has rocked some deep part of me. But the words have sparked something within me — now the more I look at it, the less frightening it becomes. I have heard stories that the frost giants have cruel twisting horns crowning their heads, that their claws are as long as a man's thumb joint, and that they are twelve feet tall and use trees for weapons as well as living, enchanted ice. But this frost giant is hardly like that. Its eyes may be frightening, its skin may be a deep cobalt blue, but I see no evidence of there ever being horns on its brow, and whilst it does have claws, they are not as long as I have heard, and instead are only extend a centimetre or two. As for its height, it is tall for a normal man, standing above my father who I used to think was the tallest man in the world, but it stands nowhere near twelve feet.

It looks over to me, and its red eyes, devoid of either irises or whites, narrow. "If you give her to me," the frost giant says, "I swear that you will be looked after. All of you. Not only for this winter, but for all your lives."

The words hang in a heavy silence.

"And why should I trust a creature like you?" my father says, lifting the skillet. "There is nothing to trust of a creature that has no honour."

The frost giant's eyes darken, and it growls like a cornered wolf. Suddenly, it is the monster again, the creature of the cold that will kill my family without hesitation. My sudden sympathy towards it vanishes.

"How dare you accuse me of such a thing?" it asks, still dangerously quiet.

"Why would I not?" my father asks angrily. "You come here in the dead of night with a promise that sounds too good to be true and demand one of my daughters without so much as a hint of explanation?"

"I have as much stake in honour as any of you here," the frost giant snaps. "As such, I swear on my life and my line that if you give her to me, you will be looked after until the day you die. You will have enough food to fill your bellies three times over three times a day everyday. You will have clothes enough to spill out of your closets, enough coal and wood to build a bonfire to reach the stars, and enough gold lining your pockets to buy a mansion filled with servants."

My breath catches in my throat. I know there are too many mouths to feed to get us through this winter. Everyone here knows that without taking the chance that this miracle of a deal is real, at least one or two of us will be dead come spring.

The frost giant looks at me unblinkingly. "I swear that you will come to no harm at my hands," it says.

I swallow, and my decision is made. The half-starved state of my family convinces me. "I will come," I say.

My mother wails, and my father's face whitens. I stand up and remove the twelve hands suddenly wrapped in my rag of a skirt. My eyes are fixed upon the frost giant. He — this frost giant is male, and as such I will think of him as male — _he_ looks at me, and I think I catch a hint of surprise in his eyes before it vanishes. Was he not expecting his offer to be seriously considered? Perhaps.

"If, and only if," I continue, determined, "you swear upon your honour that my family will receive everything you have promised them."

His eyes are grave as he nods. "Upon my honour," he says, a solemn vow.

"I forbid it," my mother says. She spits at the frost giant, "How dare you come here and put this thought into my daughter's head?" Her hands clamp around my upper arm.

I shake her off. "Mother, this is our only hope." I look her in the eye. "Please," I whisper. _Please_, I beg. I cannot bear for any of my family to grow any thinner than they already are, cannot bear for any of them be buried. If I am still alive by that time, the nagging doubt in the back of my mind that I could have saved them would ruin and haunt me forever.

"It's a frost giant," my father argues. "You will not go with it, not even to escort it to the door."

"And what would happen if you were to die because you refuse to act?" I say hotly. "I can't have that. I couldn't bear to watch any of you die on the floor with every rib stark again your skin." My breaths are coming fast as the emotions well up inside me. Tears sting my eyes, and I swipe them away, angry with myself for them. "Mother please. He has sworn to provide for you if I do this, has sworn not to bring me to harm."

"I don't care," she says. "You are my daughter, and I will not sell you for anything."

"Even for the lives of everyone else?"

She stops dead, and we look as one to my six sisters.

Gefjun stands now. "If that's how things are going to be," she says, "then, jotun, I will tak—"

"_No_." The frost giant's snarl sends everyone back a step. The circle of frost-covered floor around his feet expands and his gaze strays to me. "I will only take Sigyn. It has to be Sigyn."

Warmth swells in my chest for Gefjun, and I run to her, throwing my arms around her shoulders and burying my face in her dress. I am shaking with sobs, and she holds me gently, rubbing circles over my back. The truth is that I am terrified of the intensity of the frost giant's voice when he shot down Gefjun's compromise. Only me. Why? What do I have that he wants? If he wants beauty, then I am not the first one he should have come to. Out of everyone in this land, I am hardly the most beautiful, and even within my family, Lofn is the most beautiful out of my siblings. But he only wants me. I don't understand why, and neither, does it seem, anyone else. But what scares me the most is the fact that the frost giant knew my name. No one has said it since his entry. It chills me to my bones.

"Look at him," I say to my mother, looking over my shoulder at the frost giant. My cheeks are wet with my tears. "He is well-fed, he has wealth enough that he can afford fur —"

"It does not mean anything," my father says. "It could have stolen the fur, eaten _people _—"

"Stop it," I say. "Stop. I'll … Father, you'll only make it worse for me."

"Sigyn, you won't —"

"But why not?" I demand, angry now as I let go of Gefjun. "I am an adult, I am fertile. It would have only been a matter of time before I was required to take a husband, maybe even a matter of months. What is so different about this?"

"You will not be given to a monster," my mother says, but I continue on.

"You will be searching for a dowry in exchange for my hand. This jotun may be a monster, or he may not be. If I were to stay and take a husband in the future, what guarantee would you have that he would not beat me? There is none; he could be as much a monster as this frost giant, or even more so. This deal is by far the greatest dowry I will ever fetch. Take it. Please. He has sworn to deliver it."

Finally, my mother closes her mouth.

"Sigyn, don't do this." My father's voice is soft, and I almost buckle then. But I fix my eyes on the frost giant and lift my chin. If I am to follow this path, then I will be brave for my family, and for myself most of all. Perhaps if I manage to create a convincing facade, the jotun will not treat me as my parents fear.

"I will come," I say again. I cross the room; cross to him. I step onto the frost. The air around him is freezing cold, and my hands jump to my arms.

"Sigyn please!" Hnoss wails. Lofn catches her as she lunges for me. Thick tears stream down my little sister's face, and sobs wrack her chest. The tears come back to my eyes as I look to Lofn. Her eyes too are wet, and my gaze travels to my other sisters. To Vár and Syn; to Gefjun and Sjöfn. Each of them looks shocked, and each of them broken in their own way.

"Farewell, Hnoss," I say quietly. "Be sure not to hog the blankets."

"Stop it, Sigyn!" Hnoss pleads. "Don't go with him! We need you here; please…."

"Come," the frost giant says softly in my ear. "Do not hurt them anymore."

I want to scream at him that _he_ is the one doing all of this, and I almost do, my mouth opening and the words heavy upon my tongue, but I bite them back. This deal will buy my family comfort and food and safety, and I do not want to jeopardise that. After all, he is still a frost giant, and I do not fully trust it to keep its word. How can I? I can only pray that it keeps the two oaths it has given tonight.

We step out into the night, and I close the door behind me quietly. I shiver, pulling my clothes around me.

"Here, Sigyn."

I jump as the frost giant undoes the fine clasp of the wolf fur cloak, takes it from his shoulders, and drapes it around mine. I suppose it would be warmer if it hadn't been pressed against his icy skin for so long; but even so, it is still warmer than all of my other clothes combined.

"Thank you," I whisper, holding the front closed and burying my ears into the collar.

"This way."

He does not take my arm as I expected him to have done. He walks off, and he expects instead for me to follow him. I do so, stepping in the footprints he leaves in the snow. He moves across the drifts with little effort, whereas even following the tracks he had made, it is somewhat of a struggle for me to keep up. We walk in silence for a few minutes, and even through the heavy cloak, now warm and curled around me, my fingertips are numb. My toes are worse off; I cannot feel them in my thin shoes, and thoughts flash across my mind of frost bite. It is all I can do to keep putting one foot in front of the other, to watch that bare blue back as it walks across the snow. I take the time to study him now he doesn't have his cloak.

He is made of lean muscle, and the dark lines cover his back too, disappearing into the line of his trousers. I notice his long black hair has small stone and glass beads woven into it. Near the back of his head, two falcon feathers have been tied into his hair, painted with the same lines that cover his body.

When the frost giant reaches his destination, I feel my knees go weak. He has walked up to a dark mound, and as he touches it, rubbing something, the mound stirs. I realise with a jolt that it is a beast of some kind, huge and covered in thick hide and spikes. Its eyes too are vermilion, and it lifts its head, yawning, a pink tongue curling out to lick its nose. Tusks protect its jaw, and the tail, curled tightly against the body, is heavy looking. Upon its back is a saddle.

The frost giant makes a clucking sound I could never replicate under his breath, and part of me wants to laugh derisively. He is treating the beast like he would a horse, and then I realise nastily to him is probably is a horse. He turns to me. I have frozen fifteen metres away.

"Are you afraid?" he asks me.

I am terrified, have been terrified since I first saw him in the dark, but I still say, "No."

I know that he knows that I'm lying, but he doesn't say anything about it. "This is Blíðýr," he says, stroking one of the great tusks.

I come forwards cautiously. "Hello," I whisper. I suddenly feel like an idiot, and my face warms as colour floods to it. The beast, Blíðýr, sighs heavily, and my hair rustles around my face.

"Come." The frost giant holds out a hand and I take it hesitantly. It feels like he has put it into ice water. He helps me into the saddle, and I hold onto the pommel as he pulls himself up behind me. Tied to the pommel is a set of reins.

The frost giant makes the strange clucking sound again, and Blíðýr sways dangerously beneath us as it gets up, shaking its head as it turns to face the north. The frost giant's arm is tight about my waist as he picks up the reins. Even beneath his gloriously warm wolf fur cloak, his cold flesh freezes my blood. I am shivering as he drives Blíðýr forward with a sharp cry and kicks it in the flanks. The animal jumps forward, flying across the snow with easy bounds. It is far faster than a horse, and the wind stings my eyes. I throw my arm up in front of my face. I would have flown off if not for the jotun. He has moulded himself to my back, lying almost on top of me and pressing me down as he rides Blíðýr with an expert hand. It is all I can do to hold to the saddle tightly, praying that I do not fall despite the safety he offers me. The rocking motion of Blíðýr's strides is making my empty stomach turn.

"What's your name?" I whisper. I need to distract myself.

The frost giant's grip around my middle tightens. Perhaps it is a gesture of comfort; I can't tell.

"Loki," he says in his quiet voice, so quiet I almost miss it. The name is as harsh as the wind battering me, as harsh as the cold that eats at my bones, as harsh as the stories I have heard told of his people. It is a name that suits his nature, I think.

"Loki," I repeat. "Loki."


	2. Chapter Two — The Castle

_She is here, and I am determined to win both her heart and my freedom. But as we travel further and further north, my mind is working furiously; the simple fact is I do not know where to start, for she still sees me as a monster, as do I. But I am a born and bred liar; what is a little more lying?_

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><p><strong>Chapter Two — The Castle<strong>

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><p>Someone is shaking my shoulder, rousing me gently from sleep. "Sigyn."<p>

I groan as I straighten up. Everything feels stiff, sore, and frozen. My fingers are tightly curled around a saddle's pommel, and it is an effort to let it go; they ache afterwards. My back cracks as I arch it, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I have forgotten for only a second who and what I am with, but as the huge beast of a mount settles down, everything comes back to me in a fell swoop of memory: the frost giant and the impossible deal he offered my family out of nowhere in exchange for me, his steady breathing just behind my ear after he told me his name, and the strong arm he had curled about my waist, grounding me as Blíðýr ran into the unknown. Loki is behind me, and gives me a slight squeeze where he still holds me once he sees that I am awake.

"We're here."

Then his arm is gone as he turns to dismount, swinging his one of his long legs over Blíðýr and sliding down its side with nothing but practised ease. I look around, and my jaw drops.

We are in a huge cavern, something that would look entirely natural if not for the staircase set into the furthest wall. It is dark, but lanterns interspersed along the walls bathe the cavern in a soft blue light. Above our heads, long, dripping fingers of ice glitter. Columns shaped like hexagons rise along the walls, dusted with ice. The cavern floor is covered in a thick sheet of ice and sprinkled with grit. Behind us is a huge portcullis, still up, and the wooden doors in front of it are closing. I catch only the brief glimpse of outside before they boom shut. A seemingly endless forest of pine blanketed in silver snow shines beyond the doors. Mountains — no, cliffs — frame the horizon. The skies are the deep indigo-blue of early evening, and there are stars so numerous hanging in the sky it is hard for me to believe — I have never seen them so clearly. The galaxies within shine with every colour imaginable. North lights paint the skies green and blue and pink, flickering and dancing above the trees. Regret pulls at me for falling asleep during the ride, and I bitterly wish I had had the time to drink it all in, to see the ice and snow and the fjords and tundras; it is a dream. But the spell is broken as the doors snap shut, and the chain of the portcullis rattles as it closes.

"You can see them later," Loki says. "There's plenty of time for that after you're settled."

Oddly, the idea of settling doesn't frighten me as it did before, despite the fact that I share the company with a frost giant. The winter now looks magical instead of it being the threatening thing I have seen it as for the past weeks. The delight in the idea of the season is returning to me. But the outside environment is hidden from me now, and my attention returns to the cavern.

"What is this place?" I ask in barely more than a whisper.

"My home," Loki replies somewhat stiffly. "Beneath my home." He is looking up the staircase, head tilted to the side. "Brúðguminn!" he calls. The word sounds harsh and alien to my ears, and I think that it must be something of the jotun language. But there is a scuffle of footsteps, and it is soon clear that Brúðguminn is a person and … an óss.

He is younger than I am, closer to Hnoss in age. His thatch-coloured hair is cropped short in the style of a thrall, but his clothes are fine — excessively fine for a servant. Part of me relaxes at that; my family will be well looked after if Loki can afford to dress his servants in such extravagance, provided he keeps his oath. The clothes are clean, and the detailed embroidery around the neck and cuffs of his over-tunic tell that it must not have fetched at a small price. His face looks good-natured, and his nose is plastered with freckles rather like my own — they are especially visible against his pale skin.

"My lord," he says, bowing low before Loki. His voice is caught somewhere in the awkward stage of adolescence where it is not yet at its full deepness, but is most certainly not the voice of a boy. "I am happy you have returned safely." His eyes flit to me, and I squirm under his gaze. They are a washed out blue that makes me think of winter skies.

"Blíðýr's had a long run," Loki says. Blíðýr seems to huff in agreement, and I clutch at the saddle's pommel as he moves beneath me.

"Of course, my lord. Anything for my lord." Brúðguminn skirts around Loki with a bow and extends a hand to me. "Come, my lady. I must attend to the lord's steed, and you look mighty cold."

"I'm not a lady," I say at once. Brúðguminn turns to Loki, confusion clear on his face, but Loki's lip lifts a little. Brúðguminn's mouth closes.

I watch the exchange, disheartened. Some part of me wants to apologise to the boy for not being a lady wrapped up in furs and silks, but there is little I can do, so I remain silent.

I take Brúðguminn's offered hand somewhat gingerly and try to imitate Loki's earlier slide of descent. My skirts snag on Blíðýr's rough hide and something rips. For a moment I am deathly afraid that the rip came from Loki's beautiful wolf fur cloak, but a cold breeze close to my backside soon tells me what it was that had torn. I turn scarlet with embarrassment at the realisation and pull Loki's cloak further around me so to hide it, as I am sure at least one of them heard. Neither of them say anything though.

"My lady," Brúðguminn says. He takes from the satchel at his side a pair of rabbit fur gloves and holds them out to me. "Your hands are deathly cold. It's warmer inside, but for now anything would help."

I take the gloves gingerly from him and pull them, shaking, onto my hands. The fur is incredibly soft and I flex my fingers in them, simply feeling it. The warmth starts to flow back, pins and needles prickling my fingers as feeling returns. I look at Brúðguminn, a tiny smile playing around my mouth. "Thank you, Brúth — Brú —"

The boy laughs. "Brúðguminn," he says with a wide smile. "I understand it's a bit of a challenge to get your tongue around it the first couple of times; I had trouble too."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Brúðguminn isn't my real name, at least, not the one my parents gave me," he tells me, chatters, rather. "I don't know what they called me if they did get around to naming me, but Lord Loki took me in, and so I am his Brúðguminn. All the servants are like me: no ones, lost ones. But I know what you're thinking, my lady — I can see it in your eyes — and I can assure you that despite our backgrounds we're efficient. We're as quiet as ghosts and walk in the shadows. We'll be there whenever you require. Just call for us."

"They will hear you," Loki says. I had almost forgotten he was there; he was watching us, head tilted to the side in scrutiny. Are Æsir mannerisms strange for him to behold? He seemed accustom to them enough last night when he spoke to my parents. "Follow me."

Loki sweeps away and I have little choice but to obey. I look back at Brúðguminn. He has taken Blíðýr's long reins in hand and looks laughably small to be leading the huge, hulking beast away into another cavern to the right. I wonder how he will go about caring for a beast that's many hundreds of times his size.

Loki mounts the steps with a warning of, "Careful; they're icy."

My foot nearly slides out from under me when I put weight on it and I fall forward. The impact to my hands is lessened by the gloves, but I scramble upright before Loki can look back. I am careful now as I transfer my weight to my toes and climb cautiously after him, my every action focused on not falling. Loki seems to glide up the steps without even a hint of trouble, and when he reaches the top, he holds the door open for me. I almost fall inside. It is much warmer than I am expecting and I take in a breath, revelling in the temperature. Even so, I still hold the cloak tight around my shoulders.

"Are you alright, Sigyn?" Loki asks me. I nod. "Very well.

"Ambátt," Loki calls now, "tend to Sigyn; she is in your care now. See that her every whim is fulfilled; perhaps start by drawing her a bath."

Like Brúðguminn, the maid appears at his immediate bidding. She is a small, asynja woman with skin the dark colour of the earth. Her brunette hair is pinned into a high, no-nonsense bun atop her head, and the skin around her warm, doe-like eyes is crinkled with laugh lines. Her clothes, a floor-length woollen cream dress, are also very fine. When she takes my hand gently in her own, her skin is surprisingly soft for a servant whom I'd assumed would have had callouses rough enough to match my own.

"My Lady Sigyn," she says, smiling at me. Even now, I cannot help but feel the heat rise to my face, and it is half a thought to take my hand from her grip. It takes much more effort than I thought it would to keep it limp. "Would you like anything hot to drink?"

"Oh … N-no, thank you."

"But you're freezing, my lady." Then, to my utmost surprise, she has the audacity to turn to Loki and give him a reproachful look.

Loki does not react to it.

"My lord." She looks back at me. "Please follow me, my lady."

I turn to Ambátt. She curtsies in my direction before she turns and leads me through the castle. I hurry past Loki, sparing him only the smallest of glances before I venture deeper into the castle. He doesn't look at me, and I am glad to leave him behind. Despite the fact that I was pressed against his chest for a long time, I am still uncomfortable around him; my heart still jumps in fear. He is still a frost giant, and, I remind myself, I have every right to be scared of him. This … charity — although I am loath to call it such despite when it is, in all sense of the word and the situation, true — could merely be a façade. I suddenly have the strongest urge to throw his cloak to the floor, but I don't; I am still freezing, and my dress is still ripped.

The cavern stairs must serve as the main doors, because I now step into what I can only describe as an entrance hall. The ceiling soars above my head, and a chandelier bedecked with hundreds of thin white candles illuminate the space — the fire they hold matches the blue of the lanterns in the cavern. The dark grey stone walls hold veins of ice, as does the floor beneath my feet, but they oddly don't feel cold. They feel immensely warm in fact. Brúðguminn was right — despite appearances and now that I've had time to adjust, the castle is, in fact, a very comfortable temperature. A large door to my right lies open and beyond it, I can see a feasting hall. A single long table dominates the middle of the room, bedecked with a white tablecloth. A door to the left leads downwards. A grand staircase lies directly in front of me; the balustrades are made of fine stone and carved with the utmost care. The smell of pine needles penetrates the air.

Ambátt leads me up the staircase to a landing and turns right as the staircase splits. As we climb to the next floor, we walk past a large window made of a sheet of clear glass that overlooks the forest below. I stop to look outside, mesmerised, and ask Ambátt, "What time is it?" Evening, I had thought before, but part of me scoffs at the idea. That would have meant I would have slept through not only the night, but also the entire day. Part of me is horrified at the idea — I pride myself in not lying around too long. Not to mention that at the startling speed Blíðýr travelled at, I am a long way from home. Far enough away I am afraid to think about the exact distance.

"A little after midday," Ambátt says, coming back to join me and look at the breathtaking landscape sprawled beneath us. "We don't get much sunlight this far north during winter; maybe three or four hours daily."

"Three or four _hours_?" I gasp in shock. "How far north is this?"

"We are about fifty kilometres south of Jotunheim. During the summer the opposite is true, and there are very few hours of darkness." She turns to me and says, "Do you like the view, my lady?"

I can only nod. I am very far from home if the day-night cycle is at such extreme odds.

"Then your rooms will have only the best of views. We have many that have floor-to-ceiling windows and balconies that run along the outside."

Rooms. As in more than one. My mouth turns dry in shock, but I force myself to say, "That would be wonderful, Ambátt."

She curtsies again. "Then if you would follow me, my lady. We shall strive for only the best."

By now I am deeply uncomfortable. The unprecedented kindness of this woman and the sudden wealth that surrounds me is positively overwhelming. Wealth that I, someone who is by all means a peasant girl and therefore has little right to, am being indulged in, from the cloak around my shoulders to the rabbit fur gloves on my hands. Even setting foot in such a magnificent castle as this should have been beyond me.

Ambátt and I climb flight after flight of stairs, and by the time we reach a landing to which Ambátt does not turn to the next set of steps, I am panting for breath. I am grossly underweight and embarrassingly unfit. I look out the window that has followed us upwards. By my reckoning, we'd have to be on one of the highest floors; we just have to be.

"This floor is for your personal use," Ambátt says, coming to a great door of oak.

I snap out of my musing "The _floor_?" I ask unbelievingly. "The whole thing?"

"Yes, my lady, the entire floor."

"I can't have the entire floor," I protest. "A single room would be enough, a cupboard even —"

"My lady, please. Perhaps, if I may be so bold, you did not hear me when I said only the best things for you?" Ambátt asks.

"But —" I fall silent as Ambátt gives a small smile. She produces a key from her sleeve and inserts it into the iron lock in the door. She twists it and the mechanism within clunks open, the sound echoed loudly by the stone. She opens the door and my breath, again, is taken away.

Ambátt was not exaggerating when she said the rooms had a floor-to-ceiling window. It is an atrium, and I count five other doors leading off into other rooms. The atrium itself is lushly decorated. Tapestries upon which is complex knotwork surrounding pictures of painstakingly detailed flowers — pink caemilla, carnation, scarlet zinnia, blue hyacinths, gardenia, forget-me-nots, orange blossom, primrose, and a dozen others I cannot recognise — hang fifteen feet long. Furniture made of lightly coloured wood and carved with knotwork have been pushed against the walls — tables for pieces of art and my belongings. A round table in the centre of the atrium holds an enormous vase bursting with the flowers that are seen in the tapestries, and never mind that most of them are out-of-season. Everything else here seems impossible, so, I ask myself, why not this too?

Ambátt opens the doors one-by-one, and each of them leads to separate rooms for different uses. One leads to a suite where I may spend my spare time wiling away the hours with the leather-bound books stacked on the shelves — that would have been if I could have read them; the letters are useless to me, as I have never been taught anything beyond my numerals. A fire crackles in the hearth and I catch a whiff of pine from it. There is a grand bedroom, the bed big enough to hold my entire family comfortably. It is covered with a great duvet of soft red felt, embroidered once again with flowers, and wolf fur is laid across the foot. Another vase is rested on the bedside table holding the same flowers as the one in the atrium. A canopy hangs over the entire thing, and there is another fire in the hearth in this room. But one wall is made of glass, offering me yet another view. I wonder if I would ever get tired of waking to such a sight every day. The other rooms lead to a walk-in-closet and dressing room — the only room that is bare except for three dozen bolts of cloth in a variety of colours — a storage room, and finally, there is a small room that leads off onto a larger bathroom. This is the one Ambátt gestures me towards, and I follow her inside.

Ambátt closes the doors behind us with a soft click before she turns and walks towards me. She takes my hands in her and presses the key into my fingers before closing them around it. "These rooms are for you," she says again, and again, I feel like crying, sobbing my heart out because I am simply so overwhelmed by everything that has happened to me. If I had been told this time yesterday of where I would find myself now, I would not have believed it. But the truth is here before my eyes and it is too much. What is it that Loki wants from me? My labour? My company?

My body …?

My heart suddenly increases its pace until it thumps like a rabbit's when it has been caught in a trap. I have to grasp my hands to stop the tremble that comes to my fingers and I feel like crying again. Of course he would come to a poor farmer's girl like me if he wanted that; after all, I am desperate for anything, will be willing to lick the filthiest of boots — or frost giant toes — so that my family will live. It is clever for Loki to do this, to seek out someone that he can pamper and spoil to relax into false security and that will afterwards offer little to no consequence in order for him to state his pleasures. Something tightens in my chest.

As these thoughts cross my mind, Ambátt's arms are suddenly around me, rubbing comforting circles into my back as my lip trembles from sheer emotion — from a deep gratefulness and primaeval fear of the unknown. "Oh, sweet girl," she murmurs. Her fingers dig into my stiff muscles, loosening the bunched knots in my back and shoulders. It's relieving. "It's alright."

"Why?" I ask. My voice is shaking and much higher than it usually is. Fat tears roll down my cheeks and drip from my chin. "Why is this happening?"

"Lord Loki has his reasons," she says.

That bodes nothing well for me. "Do you know them?"

"Yes, my lady, that I do."

"Can you tell me?"

"I am sorry, my lady, but I have been ordered not to say a word."

I understand, but it doesn't mean I am not frustrated, nor does it calm me. I had not thought it possible for my heart to beat any faster than it already is, but it does so. It feels like a jackrabbit _thump-thump_ against my ribs. Ambátt must be able to feel it, and I wonder if she can guess the reasons as to why it does so, but she is silent, and I am grateful for that.

After a few minutes, Ambátt pulls away and takes my hand between her own once again. "Come, my lady. Your bath awaits, and I am sure it will help. Dry your eyes, my lady; everything is well."

I sniff and follow her through one of the doors, wiping my eyes with the sleeve cuff of my dress. I have cried a lot within the past day, and I despise myself for doing so. I feel like a waif, far-too innocent girl, not the young woman of almost nineteen that I am. It is unbecoming for me, and I make a vow to myself — I will not cry again as long as I am in this castle. I will refuse to cry. I am braver than this.

_For my family._

The bathroom is huge. The floors and walls are tiled with ceramic — something I have heard only adorns the bathrooms of the wealthy. This room too has a floor-to-ceiling window offering a perfect view of the forest and surrounding landscape. Beneath the window is a large tub made of dark stone, complete with taps, which is sunk into the floor. The granite is polished smooth and feels like silk when I crouch to brush my fingers along its surface. A large vanity bench stretches across one wall, a long mirror situated above it. A sink is at one end — it too has taps — and a pile of fresh white towels at the other. In the far corner of the room is an area sporting chamber pots where I may do my business.

Ambátt lays a hand on my shoulder, curling it into the wolf fur collar as she smiles. "Saumakona will be here soon," she says. "To take your measurements."

"Saumakona?" I ask.

"She will have you something to wear for when you have finished your bath."

"But it's impossible to have something made for me so soon," I argue. "I've only just arrived!"

"Saumakona is very skilled," Ambátt says, a twinkle in her liquid doe eyes.

"But this is fine," I say, showing her my clothes. Perhaps Saumakona will be able to patch up the rip in it; it would have to be a quick fix, but I wouldn't mind at this point. I want something normal and comforting now, not even more finery than I have no right to have access to.

Ambátt shakes her head. "You are Lord Loki's guest, and he will not have you dress as is unfitting of the quality of the life you will live here."

_What life?_ I want to ask. _That of a serving girl? Here only for his pleasure?_ But I purse my lips.

Ambátt peels the rabbit fur gloves from my hands, laying them gently on the vanity. When she gestures for the wolf fur cloak, I do not yield it. She leaves it gracefully, instead picking up two towels from the pile and hanging them on the rack beside the fire in the other room. "But more of that when Saumakona arrives. The bath will take a while to fill, so let us plan for it whilst we wait. That being said, how do you like your bath drawn, my lady?"

"Please, Ambátt," I say quietly. I have to say something now, especially after she has treated me so kindly I cannot hold my tongue anymore. "I am no lady. My name is Sigyn."

"I am obliged to call you 'my lady' whilst you are my lord's guest," Ambátt says, not a single pause in her work. "So, my lady, how would you like your bath?" she asks, walking back into the bathroom.

"I don't know," I whisper. If I am to make no headway with the servants as to what they call me, then I see little point in protesting. I do not have any experience with a dilemma such as this, but I feel as if Mother would say to leave them be in their ways. It is somewhat of a hard decision for me on my part to quell the urge, but I resolve to do my best.

_Besides_, I reason with myself, _it would be nice for a while._

But it just makes me all the more uncomfortable. It reminds me of how much my world has changed. Some part of me hasn't yet come to terms with it, and it is all because of one decision. In the end, it wasn't a hard decision, but the fallout will, I predict, be dire. The realisation sets me on edge.

"Perhaps for now we should start with warm water," Ambátt is saying, crouching down and turning the taps. Water gushes out of them — crystal clear and steaming. "If my lady would like the temperature to be different, it can be done."

I can only nod.

Once she is satisfied with the running temperature, Ambátt straightens up and turns to the sink and vanity bench. "There are many herbs here with which we can scent the water," she says. She opens one of the drawers and pulls out a white cotton bag. There is a label stitched on the front, but the letters mean nothing to me. "Lavender is my favourite, if I may say," Ambátt says. She holds the bag out for my inspection and I take a sniff. The dizzying scent of lavender that I have always delighted in fills my nose, and I take another, longer sniff of it.

"Lavender," I say at once.

"Might I say that there are other scents my lady can chose from?" Ambátt says, opening the drawer further still. Two dozen identical cotton bags sit within, but I cannot bring myself to tell her I would spend another age trying to pick one. Besides, lavender has always reminded me of my mother, who always had loved the scent of it. She has little pillows of the stuff lining her drawers so her finest clothes always smelt of it. I remember I had snuck one of those little pillows out of her drawer once, tucking it into the my dress pocket and taking it out over the next week and a half simply to roll it between my fingers and bring forth the smell. Lavender reminds me of home, and I want to have something of home here.

I hold out the lavender bag. "Lavender, Ambátt. Please."

Ambátt smiles and dips her head. She takes the bag from me as a knock comes at the door. Ambátt looks to me, and, flustered, I realise she is waiting for me of all people to give the command.

"Come in," I call a little stupidly. My voice sounds high and slightly reedy, and my face burns as a second woman comes in. She is older than Ambátt, her hair containing a slightly grizzled look to it, and she is a little pudgy around her middle. Her clothes are, to my surprise, the least fine of the servants I have seen. A bag is slung over her shoulder, and she curtsies as soon as she enters. This must be Saumakona.

"My lady," she says.

I almost protest again, but I remind myself as to my reasons not to say anything. I settle for, what I hope, is a polite nod.

"Please," Saumakona says, "I will take your measurements. Ambátt showed you the bolts?"

"The cloth?" I nod again, this time to myself. "Yes."

"Is there any that took to your fancy in particular, my lady?" Saumakona asks. She eases the wolf fur cloak from my grip and folds it neatly. "The warmer colours would suit you better, I'd wager. They would complement your hair so nicely, and your eyes."

"What of forest green?" That bolt in particular had caught my eye, not to mention that it suits me.

Saumakona touches my upper arm gently. "I wouldn't recommend that particular colour, my lady. The colour is too cold for you."

I sense the lie at once, and I have to wonder why exactly she is lying. But before I can ask, she's already moved on.

"Yellows and oranges would be good in theory, but your face will be lost in it. Burgundy … now that's an idea. Warm colour, and it's dark so the eyes will be drawn to your face. Ambátt, her hair will have to be up. High."

Ambátt chuckles. "Saumakona, the water will overflow."

Saumakona turns her attention back to me. She asks me to strip naked, and when I protest, she points out Ambátt will be assisting me with my bath. There is no point in hiding, she argues; we're all women here. And so, I pull off my numerous coats, my socks, shoes, scarves, my ripped dress and, finally, my undergarments. It is now more than ever that I feel conscious about the state of my far too skinny body, bared for all to see. I move my hands to cover myself, looking at the floor at the same moment; it also means that I can hide my face behind the curtain of my hair. Saumakona walks behind me, muttering under her breath. I hear, "Nothing more than skin and bone," and, "No fat." I shiver; will she be reporting how bony I am to Loki? Or does he like his women underweight and starving? She takes out a length of tape and a piece of parchment, measuring me and scribbling numbers down. It is all done within a minute, and she turns with another curtsy and leaves.

"Your bath, my lady."

The taps have been turned off and the whole room smells of lavender. I scamper to the bath, pausing only briefly to dip a toe in. The water is gloriously warm, and I step in, gasping as I sink into the tub. At home, it was a huge treat to have a warm bath, simply because of the length of time it would take to prepare it with such small containers we owned, and the excess of firewood we would need. It took a long time to bring the water up to a temperature such as this. The lavender leaves in the water clings to my skin, and the heady scent of it leads me into a such a state of relaxation I do not hear Ambátt's question until she has asked it at least two more times.

"What? I'm sorry, I just —" I begin, embarrassed, but Ambátt merely laughs. She does that a lot.

"My lady, I ask only if the temperature is to your liking. Perhaps you would like it a bit warmer still?"

I am nodding before I can stop myself, but I bite my lip and shoot her a look from under my eyelashes. "If it is of no trouble," I amend.

Ambátt smiles. "My lady, for you, nothing is trouble."

I am delighted at that, if slightly troubled despite her assurances that I shouldn't be, but the thoughts of my mother once again come to the front of my mind, and so I agree. Ambátt turns the taps, but after only half a minute they are shut off again; my skin quickly turns pink at the piping temperature. I close my eyes and point my toes, almost floating in the bath. I find myself at peace for the first time since this impossible thing started, and when Ambátt wets my hair and massages soap into my scalp, I let go of my breath, sighing in pleasure. Her fingers are hard, the pressure against my skin most welcome, and I allow myself some time to forget everything. Forget about Loki, forget about the worries that plague me about him, try to forget about the fear that ate at my heart ten minutes beforehand.

Warm water sloshes against my head as Ambátt washes the soap from my hair. As it falls to my shoulders, it feels much softer than it did before. It is still clumped in wet knots, but I shiver in anticipation of the texture it will yield when it is dry. I open my eyes as she lathers more things into my hair; they too are thick and warm and smell wonderful. I stare out the window. The north lights flicker over the cliffs that, I notice with a slight frown, are completely free of snow unlike everything else; I wonder why.

"My lady, if you would sit up," Ambátt says.

I pull myself up using the sides of the tub and Ambátt pours a bucket of warm water over my hair, washing the last of the soap out. "Would my lady like to sit for a little while longer?"

"Yes," I say. I am relaxed, and it will help me avoid Loki for a little while longer.

Ambátt nods and pins my hair atop my head so not to dip it back into the now dirty water. She leaves me with a curtsy and whilst I would have thought I would have been happy to be alone, I suddenly want her back. The room seems much too big now she has gone, and the fear once again begins to take over. I don't think as I rub the cake of soap over my body, dislodging the weeks' worth of dirt on my skin. I get out of the bath as soon as I am able. Ambátt has lain the now warm towels just inside the door, and I wrap them inexpertly around my body. They are so soft and thick my fingers sink into them like they would in a well-cared for lawn. The stone and ceramic under my feet must be heated — it isn't cold as I pad outside.

Ambátt is bustling around the fire, and she looks up as I stand awkwardly in the doorway. "Come, my lady." She gestures towards a padded wooden chair and bench complete with an oval mirror — _and of course the frame has been inlaid with mother-of-pearl_, I think, exasperated — sitting against the wall. On the tabletop sits a huge variety of make-ups and creams that certainly weren't there before. I am somewhat sad not to see Loki's cloak; I think I am beginning to tease out my attachment to it. It offered a sense of security, most likely because of the all-encompassing nature of it.

Ambátt holds a robe out of me that I slip into before I sit down. "Look forward, my lady," she says, positioning my head. There are scissors in her hand, and a flutter of nervousness that feels akin to butterfly wings stirs in my chest. "I'll not be long."

And so, my transformation begins with a haircut. It is not a drastic one, but it is effective. The dead and split ends are cut away, and I see my hair spiral to the floor out of the corner of my eye. All I hear for the next few minutes are the snips and clips of the scissors and the light chatter that Ambátt tries to engage me in; I do not help her cause by only answering in single words. But she soldiers on, and I desperately want to tell her not to waste her efforts on me — a girl hollow with starvation and scared witless, but I cannot; the metaphorical cat has grabbed my tongue. My hair is soon finished, and after Ambátt steps away with a final smile, I am amazed. She has managed to take what had been my damaged, poorly cut hair and make it shine. It is so soft between my fingers I cannot help but conclude that the soap she washed it with had been imbibed with some sort of magic.

"T-thank you," I stutter. "Ambátt … this is amazing."

"Thank you yourself, my lady," Ambátt says with a slight dip of her head. "It was my pleasure."

But she is hardly finished with me yet. Next, she starts on my hands. She turns them over to expose the callouses and rubs a cream into them, softening them almost at once. I know a lady's hands should be soft, supple as silk so better to caress their lover's faces, but part of me mourns how I must hide them, the badges of my office that I worked for years to obtain. The cream too smells of lavender, and I lift my hands to my nose so to inhale the scent. I must smell like a walking herb bush now, and I crack a tiny smile with the thought. I don't think I have ever smelt so nice; the closest thing I would ever be able to compare it to are the few times I've dabbed Mother's cheap perfume on my wrists and at the hollow of my throat whenever something important enough deemed it necessary — at a meeting detailing a large business transaction Father once obtained; the attending of one of my cousins' weddings; when I went in search of the tanner's boy when I had been sixteen and burdened with a hopeless crush.

Ambátt next turns her attention to my feet, propping them up on a small footstool and, to my utmost surprise, begins to scrape vast quantities of skin off the soles with a small flat tool. I am doubly surprised by the fact it doesn't hurt — rather to the contrary, it is rather relaxing — and when I put my feet back on the ground, they feel sensitive and new. After I give my permission to Ambátt, my legs are shaved of hair as are my armpits, and my eyebrows are plucked — a long and painful process that leaves my eyes smarting and the skin red. I have heard this is what Asgard's high ladies do, and I am curious. When it is done, I feel almost childlike in my hairlessness and decide not to do it again — except maybe for my eyebrows, which I agree look much better as they are now.

This is done over the course of maybe two hours, and by the time Ambátt lets me rise from the chair, I feel born anew. As I turn towards the mirror, Ambátt chuckles and steps in the way. "Not yet. After everything is done."

Saumakona comes back shortly afterwards, and the previous doubts about new clothes in my mind vanish as I see the dress held in her arms; the doubts are replaced by the question of _how_. As she holds it up for my inspection, I feel lost. It is made chiffon that is a deep burgundy, and I know that Saumakona was right — it will compliment my eyes and hair well. It is floor length, the chest made to hug tight against my torso. It is embroidered with gold thread that winks in the light, stitched in a swirling pattern that makes me think of fire. The top is cut in a sweetheart neckline and is strapless. At the waistline it becomes tiered ruffles, the edges of each layer outline with the gold thread. The back is long enough that it will trail behind when wearing it, brushing over the floor and whispering in the wake of footsteps.

I clutch at the chair, overcome with emotion as my shoulders shake. It is too beautiful, too precious a gift to accept. It is the most beautiful thing I will ever own.

"My lady, you will look stunning," Ambátt breaths. "Saumakona, this is wonderful."

I can only nod in agreement. I do not trust myself enough to speak, for I fear I would only gibber.

"It was my pleasure," Saumakona says. "I look forward to the dresses I will make when you fill out, my lady; you have a beautiful figure."

To say it was a battle for me to accept the pricelessness of the dress would be an understatement. Ambátt and Saumakona had to almost wrestle me into my undergarments — these made of the finest of silk — and a whalebone corset. It squeezes my ribs and sides, and it is such a distraction as I try to figure out how to properly breathe that I am eventually wearing the dress. My hair is teased atop my head in a knot, and threads of gold are plaited through it to match my dress; pins and clips hold the whole thing in place, and my head feels much heavier than I am expecting afterwards. My nails are buffed and painted a dark red by Ambátt — they are then protected with a clear varnish. Dark kohl is traced across the edges of my eyes, and the black brings out the gold of them all the more. My ears have not been pierced, so I must turn down two teardrop earrings presented to me by Saumakona.

"Maybe later," Ambátt says softly as she fastens a thin gold chain around my neck — a crooked rune shaped like a bolt of lightning hangs from it. As a final touch, a light, silken cloth the same colour as the dress is placed around my left wrist — it is an old tradition belonging to court ladies who have not yet married — and pinned together with the one rune that I know: _Ehwaz_, which is inscribed upon the insides of my parents' wedding rings. The rune of marriage.

When I finally get to see myself, I cannot believe my eyes; I hardly recognise the girl standing there. I am still underweight, still have the look of animal hunger, but I look more like a girl than I did yesterday. My eyes shine again; they haven't done so for a long while. I look … beautiful.

"Let us see you from behind," Saumakona says. She turns her finger in a circle and I oblige. I twirl on the spot, and the skirts flare behind me.

Ambátt claps her hands in front of her mouth and she is smiling broadly. "You look like a dream, my lady."

I stop in my spinning and fill my lungs with air. I give a single nod of acknowledgement, but it is not one of arrogance — I simply do not know what else to do. "Thank you," I whisper. I have not done any of the work myself — this new me has been a product of Ambátt and Saumakona's care.

"Dinner is nearly ready," Saumakona says.

Ambátt nods. "My lady, it is time to show yourself to the lord. He'll be … well, blown away."

_How?_ I want to ask. Pretty dresses and shining gold aren't going to convince a frost giant that I am something to be admired; _I_ can't even wrap my mind around it. But it is Ambátt's words that I focus on: show myself to the lord. To Loki. Why must I? My earlier theory begins to sound much more correct. If it is to happen then I am determined not to walk into the wolf's jaws trembling. I will be proud.

My shoes, I thank the Norns fervently, are merely slip-ons; heels would have broken my ankles I am sure, especially with all those stairs.

"The feast is in the great hall," Ambátt says. "We passed it on the way up, my lady. It was to the right of the main staircase."

I remember and I dip my head. "Ambátt, you've done so much for me tonight. Would it be alright if I make my own way down?"

"Of course, my lady." Ambátt gives me a final curtsy before she disappears from my rooms. I am alone again, and I snatch up the key from the table I had placed it on before I had taken my bath. I run through the atrium, closing the doors loudly behind me and, I feel foolish doing so, hiding the key in a shadowed part of the corridor — I have no pockets or a clutch of any kind, and I do not want anyone snooping around in the space that has been given to me. I have to pry the key between two blocks of stone and, once this is done, I straighten up, clear my throat, and make my way as delicately as I can down the stairs. No one can see me now, I know, but I am practising for when I make my entrance to the main hall. The corset keeps my back straight, and I am suddenly very much looking forward to when I can take it off. I try not to think about the context in which I might have to.

The sky beyond the windows is black now, and the bright colours of the stars, the galaxies, and the north lights are even more brilliant. I stop for a half minute just to admire the sight, but I shake myself; no matter if my host is a frost giant, I will not keep him waiting; I will not let my manners deteriorate just because of him. Or in the prospect of what he might do to me. I instead will cast an impression upon him — a proper one.

The walk to the great hall is surprisingly short. The door is closed, and I pause before it, raising my hand to knock. I am trembling. Squaring my shoulders, I draw a deep breath and knock thrice before my nerves have the chance to give way.

After a second of silence, the doors open, and I suck in a breath at the sight before me.

The table I saw before is groaning with food. At least two dozen different main courses sit on the table, and I spy muffin beef stew, winter root mash, and mustard chicken with vegetables; broth, soup, roasts, minestrone with pesto croutons, and so many more things I cannot name. Crystal pitchers of deepest red wine sit in the middle of the table along with two goblets of silver.

"Sigyn."

My eyes slide from the table to Loki who sits at the head. His chair is turned slightly to the side, and he isn't facing me. Instead, he looks into the fire, sharp teeth resting against the knuckles of his left hand. He is wearing his wolf fur cloak again, and at the sight of it, I want to take it from him and wrap it back around my shoulders. But otherwise, he looks exactly the same as when I left him: bare-chested; fine trousers; feathers in his long hair.

"My lord," I say, dipping into an awkward curtsy.

It is now his eyes slide to me, and it is only to shake his head. "Do not call me 'lord'," he said lowly. "Loki."

"Loki." Whilst I said his name a half-dozen times last night, it is difficult to do so tonight.

But Loki seems satisfied enough, for he gestures to the other end of the table where a second place has been set. "Sit. I've been told by Kokkurinn the feast is particularly fine tonight."

"That sounds promising," I say. My mouth is watering from the sheer assault on the senses from the food beneath my nose. I am desperately hungry; the companion I have shared my company with this winter is back and even more demanding in its want to be felt tonight. It drives me to my seat. It is a bit of a hassle to arrange all the fabric properly so that it not only isn't bunched uncomfortably beneath me, but to make sure it won't crinkle and fold. I perch on the very edge of my seat.

"Eat," Loki urges and, after a final look towards him for confirmation, I do.

There are so many foods on the table I cannot pick which ones I want. So I lay a napkin over my lap and grab everything in reach with greedy hands. I take a spoonful of the muffin beef stew, a chunk of the root mash, some roasted butternut pumpkin drizzled with olive oil and rosemary, a bowl of mushroom soup, and several slices of rye bread. And since it is just sitting there, I pour myself some wine.

I try the mushroom soup first. Steam curls from my spoon and I take a cautious bite. The flavour explodes in my mouth and I am so surprised that I cannot help but gasp. It is thick and creamy, the soup full of finely chopped ham and melted cheese and thinly spread herbs, combining in my mouth in delicious tastes and textures. The mushrooms themselves I suspect had been cooked in a pan with butter, and I chase them especially around the bowl, digging to find every last sliver. They fall into delicious bits in my mouth, and I feel again as if I could weep. I am so hungry I do not bother with the table manners Mother has painstakingly taught me over the years. I take the dark loaf of bread closet to me and rip the end off, dripping it into the soup and eating every bit.

"Sigyn, slow down," Loki says. "You'll make yourself sick if you continue like that."

I freeze and, with as much delicacy as I can, put down the piece of bread that had been halfway to my mouth. Shame burns in my cheeks. "Forgive me, my … I apologise, I mean, forgive me, Loki."

"There is nothing to forgive," he says after a few heartbeats.

I dip my head and, since it seems the right thing to say, tell him, "I thank you, my lord."

"Loki."

_Damn._

I continue to eat with more mind to my manners this time, but it is difficult; my hunger mixed with the delectability of each dish makes it a challenge — a challenge I want to lose with all my heart. I want to forget myself and cram as much food into my mouth in as little time as possible, to drink the sweet wine which tastes heavenly upon my tongue, but I pace myself, mindful of Loki watching me and my own want to impress him with my table manners. I am not the feral thing my stomach begs me to become.

It is only when I am nearly halfway through my meal do I notice Loki hasn't yet made a move to eat a single thing; only a mug of something hot and steaming sits in front of him. I pause, frowning, and fold my hands in my lap. "Will you not eat?" I venture.

Loki grimaces and says, "I doubt you would find my diet appealing, Sigyn."

My thoughts jump to the stories I heard growing up, about how the frost giants feasted on the boys and girls who were out after dark or never listened to their parents. But Loki must have seen something in my face, because he chuckles under his breath and says, "It's not what you're thinking, I can assure you. I take my meat uncooked and bloody, and I eat the bones as well. It is hardly the most civilised thing to consume at a dinner table."

I shake my head. The thought that Loki eats essentially what dogs do doesn't disturb me as much as he might think it does. Perhaps it would have disgusted the ladies of Asgard's high courts, but after spending a winter living on anything that was even slightly edible, I am no stranger to odd foods. "It doesn't bother me," I say. "If it makes you more comfortable, then do not hesitate to eat with me." I try to smile at him, but there's a darkness in his eyes that makes it die in my mouth.

Loki isn't looking at me as he cradles his mug, instead gazing into the crackling fire. I wonder if he's hot, sitting wrapped in his cloak with a burning fire a few metres away. His body temperature is significantly lower than mine, and so logic says that this warm room must be sweltering to him. I can't tell what he's thinking; he keeps his face carefully schooled, and it irritates me a little when I am so used to reading the expressions of those around me.

"I am not here to horrify you, Sigyn," he says finally. "The crack of the bone between my teeth is nothing pleasant to listen to; I will not force you to watch me eat the splinters, either. It works better like this. I do not wish to condemn you to watch acts as savage as that."

"Perhaps they are not as savage as you think they are," I say.

"Sigyn," he says, finally looking at me, "they are." There is such unfathomable sadness in his eyes I can't help but take notice of it. Jotnar cannot feel emotions beyond those of rage and unquenchable bloodlust. It is proven fact.

I have to look away, and my gaze too jumps to the flames. I reach for my goblet and drink the wine through pursed lips; I try my best not to think of what I saw in those vermilion eyes.

The rest of the meal — only really my meal — is spent in silence. It is only the two of us, which I think is strange. I have heard that when one owns servants, they are there to attend to one's every whim, including the service of food, but I see no one else. I am glad that I can do something for myself though. But for every second afterwards I am aware of Loki's eyes upon me, and it unsettles me in no way that he has done before. Part of me wants to tell him to look away, scream at him to leave, but I bear it in silence. Is this a test? If it is, I don't know whether I want to pass it or not. I cannot even fully taste the wondrous food any more so distracted am I by his gaze.

It is almost a relief when I finish, laying my knife and fork down on the plate and sitting rigidly in my chair, my back straight as a pin.

"Have you finished?"

I bite back the sarcastic retort that jumps to the front of my mind and nod instead; the last thing I need is to get onto Loki's bad side.

"Very well. Leave everything, and the servants will clean up."

"But —"

"Sigyn, you are a guest in this castle and as such, you need not worry about anything but yourself."

I nod my understanding.

As I stand, I fight to hide a grimace as my full stomach lurches. The rich food, I suspect, was too much for me after spending the last few weeks living off stunted vegetables and lean, scraggly pieces of meat. And that is not even beginning to touch on how much I ate.

Loki too rises and he sweeps past me, the cloak around his shoulders billowing behind him as he leaves. He turns back once he realises I haven't yet moved, and he gives the tiniest jerks of his head. "Well, Sigyn? Will you follow me or not?"

I follow him. I am suddenly scared. Is it now that he will take me? If so, I will not go down without a fight. I hold my head high as I walk through the door he holds open, fingers interlaced in front of me as I wait for his next instruction. The door echoes loudly as it closes and Loki turns towards the stairs. My footfalls are silent as I pad after him, my skirts shuffling behind me and I try to remain as small as possible. When I walked through the castle with Ambátt to the upper floors, whenever silence fell between us it had been a comfortable one. Again, not a word is spoken between Loki and me as we climb, and this silence is one like brittle ice. Not even the spectacular views offered by the windows distract me now. My thoughts are too wild and scared.

We don't climb as far as Ambátt and I did to my rooms — only to the top of the chandelier before Loki turns towards the inner part of the castle. Norns, this must be it. I steel myself as walk after him, and as much as I try for them not to, my steps echo now. From Loki, I can hear something scraping against the stone — claws I soon realise. Fear once again stokes in my belly. The corridors are wide though, and like my rooms, the walls are hung with tapestries that illustrate scenes that I can't make much sense of; more of those blue lanterns light the way. Doors are interspersed throughout the corridors we travel down, identical and impossible to tell apart for me. But to Loki they are obviously familiar as he doesn't pay attention to any of them. I wonder if they are bedrooms.

We are not far from the stairwell — perhaps only fifty metres or so — before Loki opens a door and invites me inside. Warm air hits my face and I enter.

It is not a bedroom, but a solar, an open room full of comfortable furniture, cushions, and couches. It will suffice for his purposes anyhow. A white bear fur rug sits in front of a crackling fire that also smells of winter pine, the scent filling the whole room. To be at complete odds with the architecture of the rest of the castle, there are no windows in the room — most probably because we're in the heart of the building, I realise. The veins of ice in the walls here seems to emit a luminescent glow, the light within moving slowly through; it reminds me almost of a heartbeat, or of insects crawling sluggishly along a plant. A single large tapestry dominates the space above the mantelpiece, and I step towards it to investigate. To delay. My bottom lip trembles.

"The Asgard-Jotunheim War," Loki explains as he closes the door behind him. I feel rather than see him move behind me, and my shoulders lock. It is now, and I half expect to feel lips on my bare skin, claws snapping the threads of my beautiful dress. But there is nothing; he just stands next to me. His entire attention is focused on the tapestry now, upon the clash of blue and gold as jotun and óss fight one another, forever frozen in a moment. "So much from that times echoes into ours now, consequences of the war that are burdens to us. It is one of the most unfortunate things to happen since the slaughter of Svartalfheim."

"You … you _mourn_ the war?" I ask, surprised. I use this time to step away a little.

Loki sighs and retreats to one of the couches, sitting down and resting his elbows upon his knees. I am so relieved that he has stepped away I want to cry. "The war was a … defining point for me," he says.

"You were alive to see the war?" I ask.

_Keep talking. It's not over yet. He might still come on you._

"Alive yes, but I don't remember it. I was born within the final days of the conflict."

"I see."

"The war sculpted who I am. What I am."

I don't understand what he means. I sit on the couch furthest away from him.

"Are your rooms to your pleasing?" he asks now.

Now it's back to this, and it all but confirms my worst fears. Bedrooms. "Yes, thank you. The view is …"

"Breathtaking."

"That is one way to say it."

"The eastern view is my personal favourite. I am pleased to hear you find it enjoyable."

The silence that lapses is awkward for him, terrifying for me. I fiddle with one of the pieces of fabric making up my dress in an effort not to think of what might become of it when Loki forces himself on me.

Loki sees my picking, and it is what he latches onto to restart what little conversation there was between us. "Saumakona has done a wonderful job with that. It suits you well."

"Thank you," I whisper. In an effort to get away from those thoughts of sex, my brain latches into the thought about the green bolt, wonders how that would have looked on me. "It's the most beautiful and expensive thing that I have owned."

"Saumakona shall make you a hundred more like it if you so wish," he says.

"No," I say quickly, turning my head and trying to look him in the eye; he doesn't meet my gaze. "I can't. This is already too much."

"It's not. What you have seen so far is nothing."

I ask the heavy question that had been on my mind since Loki came with his demand: "Why?"

Why has he done everything. Why has he brought me here; dressed me clothes I would have never been able to afford; treated me like a princess; not forced himself on me yet as I am convinced he will do; picked _me_ of all people to come here? All I want now is closure.

He looks at me, and I still have to resist the urge to shiver under his bloody gaze. I wonder dejectedly if I will ever lose that urge — I can only hope that I do. I will not have myself shiver and flinch and live in fear under him. But I have every right to fear him, I remind myself. Every right.

My hands fist at the fabric of the dress and I look him squarely in the eye. I do not flinch. "Why have you done this for me? Why have you done everything? My lord," I add — just for spite. I look down now, and I release the dress to fold my hands in front of me — an imitation of what I have heard of high court ladies. I wonder in the back of my mind if I have creased the chiffon; I pray I haven't. As if it will matter — it will be in tatters soon.

But if I was hoping for an answer from him, I am to be disappointed. He turns away and says, "I've already told you, Sigyn — don't call me a lord; just Loki." He cuts off any potential questions or protests by saying, somewhat stiffly, "You must be exhausted from the trip."

But I am sick of him beating me around the bush. So I decide to get straight to the point. To get it over and done with. "Why have you done this? There must be something in it for you."

He looks surprised. "What makes you say that?"

"Because … because you're a man," I say. My voice breaks.

I needn't say anything more, for Loki's eyes widen in understanding. "You think I am to force myself on you?" he asks, stunned. I can only nod, fast. I look away. "Sigyn, I wouldn't do that."

The relief is only short lived as another argument comes to mind: he could be lying. "Then why exactly am I here? You're a frost giant; there is always a selfish motivation behind the actions of creatures like you." I jab at the tapestry. "Jotunheim invaded Midgard because you wanted to rule the humans; you didn't even need a reason beyond that."

Loki's eyes darken. "There is a selfish reason," he says, "for I am a selfish creature. But not for what you're thinking, I can assure you of that."

"Then tell me," I demand.

"_I can't_."

My mouth closes at the hiss in his voice and I swallow. A growl lay behind his words then, and I do not want to hear it again.

"I can't tell you," Loki says, his voice much more controlled now.

"Can you tell me why you can't tell me?"

I expect the answer he gives: "No." He looks at his hands now. There is something in his eyes I can't pick out, and his lip is curled ever so slightly. He sighs deeply and straightens up. "Goodnight, Sigyn. If you won't be retiring now, then I will."

He doesn't move from where he stands, and I realise it is my cue to leave. I give him a stiff curtsy before I turn to the door. I all but scurry past him.

"Ambátt, show Sigyn back to her rooms," Loki says behind me.

As if on cue, Ambátt opens the door. I jump a little; I have to wonder how she does that. She is calm and collected as she bows to Loki. "Yes, my lord. I bid you goodnight, my lord." Ambátt turns to me. "Come, my lady."

"Goodnight," I whisper to Loki.

He freezes behind me, and I sneak a glance at him from the corner of my eye. His face is slack, and he looks at me in shock I think. I can understand why: after the way I was talking to him not a minute before, I expect that he thought me to leave without a backwards glance, much less a word.

"Goodnight, Sigyn," he says again, but this time with a hint of softness that wasn't present in his voice before.

I need to get away from him. I step out of the solar and take a breath. I look to Ambátt and say, "Please, I am tired. May we go back now?"

"Of course, my lady."

Not a word is said between us as Ambátt leads me back to my rooms. It is not hard to remember the way, and surely Loki must know that. But I suspect he ordered Ambátt to escort me for the comfort of sharing the walk with someone. I retrieve the key from its hiding place and try to ignore my trembling fingers as I slide it into the lock. Emotions are bubbling within me — confusion, fear, relief, and suspicion in equal measure — as Ambátt leads me to the bathroom. She helps me out of my dress and corset before she wets a cloth to wash the make-up from my face.

"How was the meal, my lady?" she asks.

After a few seconds of thought, I say, "Silent." The food was amazing beyond compare, but it is Loki I remember most — silent Loki as he watched me eat. A shiver runs through me at the memory of his eyes on me and I straighten my back.

Ambátt does not press for any more details after I offer none. She leads me to the dressing chamber where a nightgown made of finely spun and heavy wool awaits. It is cream, the hem stitched with gold thread once more, this time detailing little birds. It is soft and thick between my fingers and Ambátt helps it over my head. It brushes my ankles, and I cannot help but run my hand all over it, sighing happily at the texture of it. From the way it fits snuggly around me, I wonder if Saumakona has also made this for me. If so, I again have to wonder at how fast she has done it, and I feel bad for her. The selfish part of me reasons that this guilt is a good distraction from my fear.

"Did Saumakona make this?" I ask.

"Yes, my lady," Ambátt says. "Whilst you were with Lord Loki."

"How …? The stitch work —"

Ambátt laughs. "As I said before, my lady, Saumakona is very skilled."

It is not the answer I am looking for, but as this is the second time Ambátt hasn't elaborated, then I do not try to get any further information from her. It would be highly unfair as well if I asked from her more if I refused to tell her more when she asked questions about my evening.

The bedchamber is in the next room, and as such, a door connects the two. The curtains have been drawn across the windows — "The glass takes all the heat from the room, my lady." — and as such, the only source of light comes from the blue lantern just above the bed. The light hovers in mid-air; magic, then. The bed is so soft I sink into it, sighing contentedly at the feel of it beneath me; if I could lie on the clouds, I think, then I imagine this is what they would feel like. There must have been a warming pan under the covers not too long ago, because the sheets are toasty. There are at least eight pillows behind my head, and it is they of all things that remind me of how big the bed is. I sink my hands into the fur laying over the top of the felt duvet cover, curling my fingers into it. Somehow, I find, I am still thinking about that stupid cloak. I still want it back, and I am angry with myself for wanting it. Angry at why I still want it. It is Loki's.

Ambátt tucks the sheets and duvet back into place. She comes to stand at my side, looking down at me before crouching to my level. "Goodnight, my lady," she whispers. I half expected her to run a thumb over the back of my hand, to comfort me with her touch as she has done before, but she does not. I didn't want her to either, and I wonder how she knows when or not to do so.

"Thank you," I reply, equally softly.

Ambátt smooths the covers once more before she stands and leaves. The light above me winks out of existence a few seconds later, and I lay alone, blinded by the dark. It presses in on me from every side; I have not been afraid of the dark since I was very young, but now when I know very little of the environment around me, that primal fear comes rushing back. My thoughts race as I lie there in the too big bed, becoming increasingly restless. Loki didn't want to force himself on me. My shoulders shake in relief and I laugh to myself. He said he didn't want to. I feel happy for the first time since I've come here, and it is lightening, freeing.

But fear soon returns, clamping down on my happiness like a mouse snatched up by a cat. I am also beginning to get over the softness of the mattress. It bothers me now, and it does nothing to help me get to sleep so my mind can just be at rest and the fear can leave me be at least until morning. I had never thought it possible for something to be too soft, and so I squirm for a while, trying to find a position in which I can sleep comfortably. My heart is loud in my ears the whole while. I sweep the pillows off the bed after a little, turning onto my side and curling around one whilst tucking another between my knees; it something I haven't done for years but offers me a surprising amount of comfort now. I squeeze the pillows tightly.

I lie there for what seems to be hours. I cannot get to sleep. I hate it. All I want to do is sleep now, but the bed and the dark and the yammering _why why why_ in my mind make it an impossibility. I have almost given up on the bed after a lengthy debate in my head about whether or not I should sleep on the floor when I hear the door open. I freeze, panic and terror flooding my mind. I wonder if it is Ambátt coming to check on me like a mother would a child, but then footsteps sound throughout the room. Footsteps that are far too heavy to belong to Ambátt. I bite my lip to keep myself from making a single sound as the footsteps draw closer — I am thankful now that I chose to lie on my right so my back is facing the door.

_He doesn't want me he doesn't want me he told me he doesn't want me._

I hug the pillow tighter to my chest as the stranger stops next to the bed. My ears are straining for any further sounds, but the only one I can hear is the stranger's breathing. At the realisation, I pay attention to my own breathing, forcing it to become slow as I imitate sleep. I am, I conclude, a terrible actress. But at least it could buy me more time to escape this room if this visitor aims to have their way with me; judging from the weight of the tread, I am almost completely sure it is a man.

Or perhaps not so terrible an actress, as the visitor moves again. There is a rustle of cloth and I almost scream as they climb onto the bed. My heart pounds like a drum.

_He doesn't he doesn't he doesn't —_

I bring my legs closer to my chest, fighting desperately to keep still and calm as the visitor readjusts themselves with a heavy sigh. I tense all the more as a hand is placed, somewhat hesitantly, on my side.

_No no no no no —_

I want to kick out at the visitor, want to turn around and claw at their eyes so they will leave the bed and never come back, but the hand becomes heavy; evidently they don't aim to move it again. And, strangely, after a while, it becomes so warm and heavy and comforting I cannot bring myself to move it; I notice also it is placed in somewhat safe and neutral territory — neither too close to my chest or legs, but perfectly in between. I turn my head minutely in an effort to see whom it belongs to, but the room is just too dark. The only reassurance I have that it is not Loki is that the hand is far too warm to belong to him, and neither sharp claws nor raised tribal lines press into my side. I feel like crying with relief. Loki is not warm, far from it in fact. It is not him. Thank the Norns that it is not him. This one strange instance, after a day full of luxury and warmth I had forgotten, perhaps I will be able to stand whatever horrors this stranger may have for me; I will be able to stand it when I know that whoever is on the bed beside me, it is not the vermilion-eyed jotun who took me away from everything I had known.

I lay there for a long time, fear beating a tattoo against my ribs, but the stranger does not stir, they do not climb under the covers, and the hand upon my side does not twitch. Their breaths are long and even, heavy with sleep, and thoughts of midnight assault slowly fade away as I wait for what seems an eternity for something to happen. But as nothing happens and my visitor continues to sleep, I inevitably relax. Suddenly, the mattress does not seem too unforgivably soft, and the warmth of the blankets and the heady smell of pinesap that fills the room coaxes my eyelids to droop. After a little longer, I simply cannot stay awake. If the stranger plans for me to lower my guard, they getting what they want. But even as I drift on the edge of unconsciousness, they still do not move. My last thought is that they will only act when I am fast asleep, but I am too drowsy to dwell on it for any longer, to care.

My dreams that night are full of frost giants. Proper ones like those on the tapestry that stand twelve feet tall and are horned and savage and willing to ravage me without a second thought before tearing the skin from my bones and devouring it. I toss and turn all night long. When I wake, the stranger is gone, and my fingers are curled around the stem of a single, thornless rose; it is blood red and in full bloom despite the season. I bring it close to my nose, breathing in the scent. The lower half of my body does not hurt in any way, there is no blood either, and the pillow is still clasped between my knees. It is all the confirmation I need; nothing happened last night to my utmost relief. I would have thought it a product of my imagination if not for the rose. I take the flowers currently in the vase at my bedside out and replace them with the rose, wondering what it means for me.

* * *

><p><strong><em>fastreader12:<em>**_ Thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying it!_

_Thank you to everyone else, both members and guests, for reading this. I feel as if not much happened in this chapter. I'm really conscious about that aspect, but the scene needed to be set; things will be speeding up next chapters. Regardless, I hope you found enough enjoyment in it to get down here. Thanks! I listened to _Moons of Evening Star _composed by Brad Derrick for _The Elder Scrolls Online_ whilst writing a majority of this chapter. It sets the mood nicely, I think._

_Cheers!_


	3. Chapter Three — The Visitor

_When the cold creeps into my bones, I must fight to bite back the bitter howl in my throat. Every day it is a battle to resist the urge to rip the skin from my arms and chest in the impossible effort to escape the truth, the image of hideous creature that I am. It has never become any easier, even after ten years._

I'm sorry_, I think as I flee._ I'm sorry….

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><p><strong>Chapter Three — The Visitor<strong>

* * *

><p>I have been looking at the rose for the past ten minutes, seated at the centre of the bed with my legs curled up to my chest and my mouth pressed to my knees. My fingers are buried in the thick material of the beautiful nightgown, fiddling absently as I stare at the flower and its perfect bloom. Despite the fact that I have accorded it, by all means, a place of honour in the vase, the significance of it chills me. The only person who could have left it is my visitor, my night's companion, unless someone else left it for me. It is a possibility, but one that I doubt. I myself don't understand why I've done this. Maybe it is because the rose offers proof that last night happened, as the sheets and furs on my companion's side of the bed are smooth and unrumpled. It is an odd reminder, I think. I was terrified last night, and yet I want to remember.<p>

I don't understand why I am reacting as I am — what with the opposing thoughts that I have — and it infuriates me. This whole, impossible situation does.

For at the heart of it, I am scared and confused. I am a girl — a child — who is so very far from home.

I want my family.

I hug myself a little tighter, biting my lip to keep it from trembling.

A knock on the door takes me from my melancholy thoughts, and Ambátt steps inside after a few seconds pause. I am now certain it was not her who visited me last night, as her tread is much lighter than that of my companion.

"Good morning, my lady," she says, crossing to the fire and restacking the wood. "How did you sleep last night?"

I look to the window and the curtains still drawn across it. No light peeks around it, and it takes a second for me to remember why — the strange daylight hours here. "I slept as well as I could have hoped," I settle on. I do not mention my companion; I feel no need to. I do not want to drive Ambátt, my one friend in this castle, away. I feel spineless because of my unwillingness to speak, but there is another reason for my silence: this want to remember, a time that I shared only with my visitor. At … at the strange familiarity of it all. I want it to be private.

Fire springs up in the grate and Ambátt steps away, placing the poker she had been holding back on its hook.

"Why am I here?" I ask.

"You have been invited by Lord Loki," she responds without pause.

"Why am I here?" I repeat through my teeth.

"My lady, please pardon my forwardness, but I have already told you I cannot give you the answer you seek," Ambátt says. "That is for Lord Loki to tell you."

"Ambátt, please. Please." My voice has reduced to a broken whisper. A beg. "Why can't you tell me? Why can't I _know_ …?"

Pity is rife in Ambátt's eyes as she comes over, sitting on the edge of the bed and bringing me into a hug as she had done yesterday. "All in time, my lady," she says. "Be strong. No harm will come to you, I promise."

But I do not want promises: I want answers. And I will get them — I swear it to myself. If I have to grit my teeth and smile sweetly to do so, then I will. I can play the long game.

I nod, taking a deep breath to centre myself, to calm my heart and mind. I pull away from Ambátt, sniffing.

"There, sweet girl," Ambátt says gently, rubbing my arm. "Come, you must be hungry. Let us get you some breakfast."

She coaxes me to stand. The rugs are plush beneath my feet, but I cannot appreciate their softness now. Ambátt leads me to the dressing chamber. A long dupioni silk dress hangs ready for me from one of the wardrobes. It is the colour of ivory, the skirts full and long enough to sweep behind me for several inches. Mother once owned a dress made of dupioni silk, and she had said the shimmer in the fabric came from the stars woven into it. I had called it her star dress, and I still do when I think of it, but she had sold it many years ago. I feel as guilty as I had done last night when Ambátt presents it to me. This dress, although it does not match the magnificence of the burgundy gown, is by no stretch of the imagination invaluable. It is something that a high lady would wear.

It is my own star dress. A take a breath and hold my arms out for it.

"My lady, there is no need for you to do this yourself," Ambátt says. "I will help; the lacings upon the back are tricky."

They are, and it takes Ambátt a fair few minutes to do them up. A shawl made of sheer material is passed behind my back to hangs on my elbows; I must keep them bent at all times so it does not fall to the ground.

"Did Saumakona make this?" I ask as I stand in front of my mirror. My hair is pulled into an elaborate knot today, much like the one from last night, but the pattern Ambátt has pinned it into is different.

"Yes," Ambátt says, straightening the skirts of my dress.

My gut clenches. "How long …? Norns, she didn't work through the night for this, did she?"

"Saumakona is happy doing these things for you," Ambátt says. "She is delighted, and she does not mind."

"She did stay up, didn't she?" I feel bad.

"Yes, my lady. And she has also made you some more things. The wardrobe needs to be filled."

"I want her to stop making me things," I say. I cannot do this to her. "Please, Ambátt, please tell her to stop. It's too much…."

"My lady, it is her job to do this," Ambátt says. "Would you ask her to give up her profession because her only client feels guilt for no good reason?"

I think of my family, of the farm. We would never do that. I give a tiny nod of understanding. "Then please … please tell her not to sacrifice her sleep and meals for me."

"I will," Ambátt says. "Now come, my lady. I will lead you down."

We make ample chat as we walk down the stairs, talking about the scenery outside, the beauty of the castle. We do not broach the subject of Loki, and I do not say a word about the visitor. In all honesty, after our parting words last night, I am dreading the moment when I will see Loki again. I dread it to the point that I feel a little ill and as if something heavy has seated itself on my chest.

But as it is with these things, it is no time at all until I stand outside the great hall. I inhale deeply as Ambátt opens the door, and I step inside. My teeth are almost chattering.

Loki sits at the head of the table, looking at the food with, what I think is, a sense of utmost longing. He is still wearing only his trousers and cloak, and part of me wonders if that is all he owns in the way of clothes. Perhaps that is why I have received so many: Saumakona is just desperate for something to do. But the thought that Loki owns nothing more than what he currently wears is preposterous. Of course he would have more things — he lives in a castle, and even I have more clothes at home than one set.

The table is once again buried in food. To say I am partially excited, yet partially exasperated, at the prospect of another feast would be an understatement. I am delighted at the thought of not only such a vast quantity of food laid out for seemingly only me, but of the variety and quality of it also. My exasperation is mixed somewhat with concern; I couldn't eat the entire table, and neither could Loki if he deigned to join in. The servants would probably eat the rest for their own breakfasts, but they surely would have been up since the crack of dawn and therefore would have already eaten. But if, judging from last night, every meal I will sit down to will be a feast fit for a dozen, where would all the uneaten food go? I worry for waste. My stomach growls loudly and I look at it somewhat horrified. I had been positive the meal last night would have quieted it for at least a week.

Loki looks up at the sound of my footsteps on the flagstones, expression neutral. I jump a little.

"Sigyn," he greets me, his tone matching his body language. "Come, sit."

I do not need to be told twice, but I perch on the very edge of my chair like a bird ready to take flight at the slightest whiff of danger. I am still scared of Loki. I have known him for less than two days, and that is hardly long enough to convince me that he isn't luring me into a false sense of security. But I sit because I have to. I have to comply; according to him and Ambátt, I am a guest. I wait with terror for what he will say next. It will be about last night; I can sense it.

"How did you sleep?" he asks.

I blink in surprise. No, he's just easing me in. That's all. "Well," I reply, just to say something. Like it was with Ambátt, I see no point in mentioning the visitor.

"Do you have any plans for today?"

"Perhaps … perhaps I will explore today. Outside," I say a little meekly. "I don't yet know."

Loki nods. "If you are to wander," he says, "don't go beyond the Troll Wall."

"The …?"

"The cliffs."

Oh. But they are a few kilometres off, so I doubt I would be able to travel to them within the day and make my way back to the castle. I do not worry about it; besides, I am too busy worrying about the now.

"Why not?" I still ask.

"That's where the real monsters live," he says. "The Wall is home to things far fouler in attitude than I. The rocks are infested with trolls, _trollkärringar_, and _huldra_, as are the trees several acres around the cliff foot. In the glen near there lives a witch, and the rivers around her cottage are likewise home to _nøkken_. Elves also haunt the forests as well as _díser_. And not only that, but Jotunheim lies beyond there, Sigyn."

"But are you not of Jotunheim?" I ask, confused.

Loki doesn't answer my question directly. "They are barbaric," he settles on after a few seconds of silence. "Its people and I are hardly alike."

There is a story behind his attitude, I think, but I do not prod him for more information. If I am to find out the reasons for his thoughts towards the realm, it will not be for some time. I instead turn my attention to the food in front of me.

There are pancakes drenched in rich honey, patties, and cereals. Half a dozen types of bread cooked through with herbs, nuts, fruits, cheeses, and pieces of meat — beef, bacon, ham, and pork loin — still steam with warmth, evidently fresh from the oven. Platters of eggs that have been hard-boiled, scrambled, and poached are interspersed with dishes boasting summer fruits that I think must have been imported from either Vanaheim or Alfheim. There are plates of breakfast meats arranged artfully on the table, boasting bacon, beef and pork sausages, chicken, and mutton cooked to perfection that add to the smells assaulting my nose. Jugs of water, fruit juice, and milk — hot and cold — sit in the centre of the table, as well as a dozen different types of tea, coffee, and — my mouth waters when I spot it — ground chocolate. There is even a container of light beer.

There is so much to choose from I once again don't know where to start, so I take a pinch of everything and decide what I want as I eat. Once again, I cannot pick a single dish as flavours and textures explode on my tongue. The honey is sweet and thick in my mouth, and some of it has been cooked into a couple of the loaves of bread. The eggs have been salted, rather coincidentally, exactly as I like them when we could afford to buy salt at home. The fruits are sweet, and oppose the meats in every way; I leave them on separate sides of my plate. But as I stand to reach for the chocolate, a servant appears at my elbow. I jump in surprise, but mostly it is because I am still so tense.

The servant is of middling-age, with thinning grey hair, bad teeth, and a potbelly, but his demeanour is kindly.

Loki clicks his tongue in disapproval. "Warn the poor thing next time, Kokkurinn. She's not used to these sorts of things."

"I apologise, my lady." His voice is deep, and his accent burred. I cannot pick where it is from.

"It's fine," I say, standing awkwardly with my hand still reaching for the chocolate.

"Make her a mug with the cinnamon," Loki says.

The servant, Kokkurinn, bows his head and busies himself with the preparation.

"Kokkurinn is my chef," Loki says, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.

"I am very satisfied with your work, sir," I say. "I … it's the most wonderful food I have ever tasted."

"You need not address me as such," Kokkurinn chuckles. A large ceramic mug is in front of him, and I watch as he heaps generous amounts of chocolate, sugar, a pinch of salt, and a golden-brown powder into it. He pours a little heated milk into the whole thing and begins to whisk. I watch his hands mostly, admiring how quick and dexterous he is as he measures out ingredients with obvious expertise.

"Sigyn," Loki says, and I look away from Kokkurinn. It will be now; I know it. But Loki once again skirts the elephant in the room: the discussion of last night. "How are you finding the service?"

"Wonderful," I say quickly, "but I worry a little…." I pick at the sleeve of my dress. "I … I don't want anyone to … to …"

_I don't want anyone to go out of their way for me._

I try to say it, but the words won't come. I sniff loudly, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. I see Loki stand out of the corner of my eye. He comes to my side of the table as quick as the wind, kneeling before me and reaching for my hand. I see his claws firstly, and I gasp and flinch back on instinct before he can touch my hand. He freezes, and his eyes widen a degree as if he has only just realised what he's doing — he pulls away as if trying to offer me comfort is something terrible. His mouth opens slightly, but then it closes as he swallows and clenches his hand into a fist. He sighs, standing up and backing away. His shoulders slump.

"Sigyn, you are a guest, and I don't want you to feel guilty for that," he says quietly. He looks to Kokkurinn and jerks his head minutely to a large wooden door. Kokkurinn finishes with the chocolate and leaves with a bow. Now Loki and I are alone again.

"I'm sorry," I say. I feel guilty for flinching, despite what he is. I am gentle in nature, and so I cannot help but feel as I am now. I stand. "Loki, forgive me."

He waves it away. "Sigyn, there is no need to apologise. I can't blame you for your actions." I don't know whether he is talking about my worry for the servants or how I reacted to him, or whether it is both. He looks to the mug and says in barely more than a murmur, "It's best hot."

He steps back from the table as I reach for the mug. The guilt surmounts; he is cautious of frightening me.

The smell of cinnamon clouds my nose as I bring the mug to my lips. The heady taste that spreads over my tongue — cinnamon, cream, and rich chocolate beneath everything — is heavenly. The heat of the drink scalds my tongue a little, and I have to settle for holding the mug between my hands to wait for it to cool. Loki looks to the fire now, moving almost soundlessly towards it.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "For … for what I said last night." There, it is out in the open. But if there is one good thing for me starting the conversation, it is that at least one bit of my guilt is off my chest, simply for apologising.

Loki looks back to me, frowning a little. "Sigyn, you don't need to apologise for that. It just … it never crossed my mind that you would fear that." He sighs. "I should have made that clear. No one will harm you here. I swear it."

My full stomach feels as if it has dropped away. No need to apologise … there it is again. "On your honour?" I say, partially to make him crack a smile, and partially to wave off the awkward silence that has descended upon the table.

He nods. "On my honour." He is silent for a heartbeat before he says, "Your family. I put the necessary things in order yesterday. They should be receiving the first part of their promised things this morning."

My heart speeds up, all my other thoughts falling away. "Thank you," I whisper, my voice quivering. "Thank you, Loki. _Thank you._" I bring the mug to my lips again, closing my eyes so to hide how wet they have become. I must not cry; I have promised myself I will not. Milk froth touches my nose as I take a deep drink of the chocolate, and it warms me immensely.

"They will be safe," Loki says. "I promise. It is the least I can do. You are very precious to them."

"But what can I do for you?" I ask into my mug. "You didn't … didn't want me." Now I am back into the territory of last night, the place where I had Ambátt a half hour ago. "Why do you want me here?" I feel like I am treading circles now. I'm getting incredibly sick of treading circles. And sick of the same infuriatingly shallow answers they yield:

"You're here because I'd like you to be my guest," Loki says.

Fine. Then I will play the long game.

I take the mug from my face and wipe the froth away with the tip of my finger. "Then may I leave?" The lack of answers and my recent volatile emotional state has made me grumpy.

"You may do as you wish here, Sigyn."

I take the mug with me, as well as a loaf of bread: one made of rye with walnuts and raisins and sprinkled with poppy seeds. I wrap the bread up in a napkin made of some sort of thick material and head to the door. All I want to do is leave.

"Sigyn."

I turn back to Loki. He rests his knuckles on the edge of the table and says, "I'll be in the solar if you wish for my company at any point."

I give a somewhat awkward curtsy, what with my mug and bread. "Thank you, Loki," I say. "For everything."

Norns, I was incredibly rude leaving him there, but it is done now. I make my way up the stairs, picking off pieces of my loaf and nibbling on them. I am only panting lightly when I get to the door to my rooms — _my rooms_, I think incredulously. As soon as I am inside, I put my things down and fall against the wall, burying my head in my hands. I feel as if everything is going horribly wrong — from my behaviour just now to my stupidly placid reactions in regards to being taken away from my family and this whole situation. I hit the wall, choking on a sob and fighting back my tears in my beautiful dress made of stars.

* * *

><p>I spend most of the day in my rooms, sitting on the floor by the window in the suite and contenting myself with looking at the landscape. I find thick sheets of paper in a drawer and charcoal pencils. I haven't been able to draw on paper for years, and even when we could afford to buy paper every now and again, drawing was never something I found unprecedented joy in; rather I did it in an effort to relieve boredom. My sketches are messy and incomplete, but drawing the Troll Wall and the trees and scribbling out the north lights helps to take my mind off the recent, and sometimes rather disastrous, events over the past two days.<p>

When it is light enough, I decide to take my before-mentioned walk outside, merely to scout the tree line and see the north lights above my head rather than through a sheet of glass. It is also the perfect opportunity for me to just try and forget about my embarrassment from this morning. Ambátt, who has brought me lunch — baked fish stuffed with herbs and salt with a side of steamed asparagus — along with another mug of rich hot chocolate, agrees to my preposition with a smile.

"You'll enjoy what Saumakona has made, my lady," she says with a wink as she leads me to the dressing chamber. I push down the instinctive objection.

I had thought that whatever wonder Saumakona had managed to make me now, it couldn't possibly out-do my gown and my star dress. How wrong I am. What Ambátt takes from the wardrobe makes me gasp in delight. Along with winter clothes made of sturdy hides, thick wool, and furs, Saumakona has made me a cloak. White wolf fur lines the collar and sides, and the fabric itself is made of fine, dark blue wool. It feels warm to the touch, and I see tiny little runes stitches into the piece. A magic cloak. I have been given a cloak lined with wolf fur and runemagic. I hug the thing to me, burying my face into it. I am so grateful for it I almost forget my promise not to cry.

"It's beautiful," I whisper.

"I shall pass your sentiment on to Saumakona, my lady," Ambátt says, smiling at my delight. "Now come. We'll try the other things."

Eventually, I am standing in the centre of the room, rugged up in my new clothes and feeling as if I am wearing fur armour for all the protection from the cold it will offer. Trousers — which I can count on my fingers for the numbers of times I have worn them in my life — sturdy boots made with leather and lined with feather down, a fur parka, several shirts, and the rabbit fur gloves I wore yesterday.

"They're wonderful," I breathe, turning in front of the mirror so to examine myself at very possible angle. "I love them." I am bursting to go outside.

"I'll take you to the gate," Ambátt says, smiling I can only guess at my enthusiasm as she hangs my star dress on the wardrobe door.

"Thank you."

The key to my rooms goes into an inside pocket of my jacket, and I pull the cloak further around me, burying my ears into the fur. The clothes are so warm I feel hot by the time we are at the door leading to the entrance cavern. Ambátt opens the door, and the chime of the icicles on the cavern ceiling is a background noise. I test my boots on the stairs and, unlike yesterday when I walked up these stairs in my frictionless shoes, my feet do not slide out from under me — these are true cold weather boots that have proper soles for the ice and snow. I bound down the stairs, giddy as a child at yule.

"Lift the gate, Dyravörðurinn!"

My excitement only surmounts as the portcullis hinges groan. I run across the cavern, free in my trousers and my cloak flowing behind me like wind.

"My lady!"

I stop and turn back. Brúðguminn jogs up behind me, a smile on his face and he drops into a shallow bow. "Your clothes look much better than those yesterday, my lady," he says.

I nod, giving him a smile. "Thank you. I think so too. How is Blíðýr?"

"He's fine. Sleeping like the lazy arse he is, but he's fine." Brúðguminn's smile falters a little as he seems to realise what such an attire means. "Uh, you're going outside?"

I nod again.

"Then I have a message from Lord Loki," Brúðguminn says. "He says be careful; he's gone out hunting and the forest can get a bit … stirred up."

"Thank you," I say. "I'll keep that in mind, Brúðguminn."

"My lady! You said my name right!"

I laugh as he walks off, fingers interlaced behind his head. I am itching to go outside, and so when the heavy doors swing open, I am running. The ice and rock gives way to snow, and it is wonderful considering my shoes are now much more suitable for the weather. I hold my arms out to the sides, watching in fascination as the north lights illuminate the white fur of my cloak blue and green and pink. There is a slight breeze that plays across my face, catching my hair and tangling the ends.

I make my way towards the tree line a half kilometre off so I can better get a view of the castle.

It splits the sky like a huge, dark thunderbolt. It is perched on a lone boulder, a building of solitude that dominates the landscape. The walls are made of the same dark stone as the interior and are also run through with icy veins. Façades of the castle are fitted with sheets of glass — the windows, I realise — and the whole thing tapers into a single spire, the top of which is completely made of glass. I want to go up there at a later point. I must, for the view would be unlike any other, even the one my rooms offer. The forest is an unbroken belt of green. Two roads split the trees. One heads to the south, and it is a single white line travelling for kilometres upon kilometres. The forest is so extensive that I cannot see the end of the road. The second leads north, directly to the Troll Wall. I turn south, Loki's advice ringing in my ears.

It must have snowed last night, for there are no footprints. In fact, mine are the only ones that are visible. Brúðguminn said Loki was outside as well, so where are his? I admit that it unsettles me a little. My feet barely sink into the snow — as there is rock under my feet where I stand — and my breath steams on the air. Once I am a little ways from the castle, I merely flop onto the snow, lying on my back and looking at the sky. The sun barely skirts the horizon, and so I am offered a clear view of the stars and the galaxies and north lights. It is magical, like something from a story. My clothes are so warm around me I do not feel like getting up, and I find myself dozing sometimes I am so comfortable.

I sit up a while later, despite the way my muscles complain, relaxed as they are. I take a few breaths before I get to my feet, walking towards the trees.

They are mostly pine, the scent filling the air and dead needles and loose pebbles crackle under my boot. I can also hear the chitter of animals. I think back on the warnings that Loki gave me at breakfast about the creatures that inhabit the forest; I wonder whether or not some of the sounds come from them. I wouldn't know, as I have no idea what half of them were, much less remember what they're called. There are squirrels, birds, and some strange thing I have never seen before amongst the branches. There is a path a little to my right, and I cross to it. It is strangely free of snow, or muddy trucks.

And then I see something that completely steals my attention.

It is a huge tree; an ancient pine that would take at least ten people to reach around and touch hands if so wished. The needles of the tree area dead brown, and the ground at the base of the trunk is littered with a carpet of them. But what is so strange about this tree is the rune cut deep into the bark: three feet tall and weeping frozen sap. It is made of three lines — one longer than the other two that point upwards to the left. I run my fingers over it, frowning a little. Why is it here? What does it mean? It has an ominous vibe to it, and I remember the runestone set Mother owns; it too had some _otherworldly_ feel to it. I back away, pulling my cloak tightly around my shoulders before I make my way back to the open field. The skin on the back of my neck tingles the entire walk out of the forest, and I am glad to see the sky again.

I want to go back inside now, and so I strike out across the snow, making my way towards the still open doors and portcullis. I am almost there when I see Loki rounding the castle's rock. But what catches my attention is the doe slung across his shoulders. He holds her as if she weighs nothing, her head lolling to the side and her beautiful liquid eyes glassy. A single deep wound in her throat is the only physical blemish on the carcass. Loki spots me at the same time I see him and he stops, adjusting his grip on the forelegs before he nods in my direction and disappears from where he came. I am utterly confused by his behaviour.

"Lady!"

I am glad for Brúðguminn's shout, and I hurry inside.

* * *

><p>Once again, I have dinner with Loki, and we manage to make small talk about subjects that hold no real importance. Neither of us mention the earlier encounter outside, and I think he is as secretly glad for it as I am. I wonder what he was doing with the doe, and where she is now. Whether she is laid before me on the table, waiting for me to eat her. I have been given another dress for tonight — this one a light blue made of a thin, sheer fabric that billows like water around me whenever I take a step. My hair, unlike last night, is loose, and the crooked rune hangs around my neck. I wipe my mouth with a napkin, finished with the steak and kidney pie. It was milky and full of rare meat — a personal favourite combination — not to mention how the pastry quite literally crumbled in my mouth.<p>

"I found a rune cut into one of the trees," I say.

Loki cocks his head to the side. "Did you?"

"Do you know why it was there?"

Loki shrugs. "This castle was built a long time ago; centuries before either of us were born. The people who built it probably put it there. There're other trees that have them too; it's not a rare sight here."

Oh. "Alright."

A part of me isn't satisfied with his explanation, though. The carving looks much newer than what Loki claims. But this place is full of strange things — the way the servants appear so suddenly when they are nowhere to be found when one goes looking for them, the magic pulsing in the walls … the visitor who came to me last night. What is one more thing? I obviously won't get the answers I seek; I haven't received any I have sought.

"Loki, I'm exhausted. May I retire?"

"Sigyn, please. I've already told you that you may do as you wish here. You may retire when you feel fit."

I give a quick curtsy and head to the doors. I walk up the stairs slowly, merely enjoying the exercise. I am comfortable enough in this castle that I will not sprint between my destinations and quiver behind barred doors. My family is being cared for — sworn upon honour — and I have been promised several times that I will come to no harm here. I must trust in that.

I enter my rooms, closing the door behind me and putting the key on the table. "Ambatt?" I call, my voice sounding loud to my ears. Whenever Loki has asked for a servant in such a manner, they have come right away. I feel stupid. Loki is the lord and master of this house, and so of course they are always close by.

"My lady?"

I jump as Ambátt comes up behind me.

"My lady, I am sorry for startling you so."

I wave a hand. "No, no … it's fine. I just … I wanted help getting the dress off. And I would also like a bath if that is alright."

"Of course."

She leads me to the bathroom, turning on the taps before coming to help me out of my things.

"Can I wash myself?" I ask.

Ambátt has my dress folded over her arm, leaving my under things to me. "Of course. I shall be waiting outside, my lady. Do you wish to retire now, or stay awake a little longer?"

"I'll retire now."

"Very good, my lady."

I choose to put the lavender in the bath water again, tracing my finger over the stitches that make up the first letter. When the bath is almost full, I take off the rest of my clothes, pleased to see my stomach protruding somewhat with all the food in it. It is also good to wash myself without someone helping me. It makes me feel more independent, more so like myself. I spend a long time sitting in the bath, draining and refilling it in fractions as the water cools. I don't bother washing my hair, and I make patterns across the water's surface with the foam as I watch the north lights, trying to once more recreate their movements. Ambátt checks on me once, and it is soon after this that I get out, wrapping one of the fluffy towels around myself and stepping into the next room.

My nightgown has been freshly washed, and the softness of the wool against my skin is exquisite. I gush to Ambátt about the landscape as I get into bed, curling my toes in pleasure at the warmth I find under the blankets.

"Are the north lights here all year round? How many colours can they appear as?"

"This is a lucky time for the north lights," Ambátt tells me, moving the warming pan under the blankets. "You've come at just the right time. There are quite a few nights where they don't appear this far south, or this vibrantly."

"_This far south?_"

"Yes, my lady. Although we may be far north, we still have Jotunheim in front of us, and their lands stretch for Norns knows how far."

"Has anyone ever successfully come back from the furthest point in Jotunheim?"

"From Utgard? Yes. The final battle in the war was fought in Utgard. I have heard … well, I must not speak ill of Lord Loki or his people, but I have heard that Utgard is a desolate place today. The queen … she is a recluse, and no one has seen much of her since the end of the war."

"Do you know why Loki's so … adverse to other frost giants?"

Ambátt shakes her head. "I do not, but there has been a lot of pain in the lord's past."

Is that …? I think I may have found some glimpse of an answer as to why I am here, but it's unsettling. Perhaps I am here to act as a balm.

"Thank you, Ambátt," I say quietly. "I'd like to go to sleep now."

"Yes, my lady. Goodnight." Her fingers stray over my hand before she takes the warming pan away. She deposits the coal in the fireplace and leaves.

Again, I lie awake in the too big bed, trying to get to sleep. The softness is very distracting, and it annoys me. I'd thought I would have gotten used to it after a night, but apparently, it is not to be. Still, I try, and I place a pillow between my knees again, wrapping my arms around another and closing my eyes. My thoughts go to the visitor, the companion I had shared the bed with last night. Was it a onetime thing, or will it happen again?

My question is answered almost an hour later. I am almost asleep when I hear the door open. I curl into myself when I hear the footsteps, and do so even more when they become muffled by the fur rug. The mattress dips as my visitor climbs onto the bed next to me, sighing heavily as they readjust themselves. I am quiet as I wait for something to happen, my heart hammering. I am not as afraid as I was last night, but I can't help but tense a little as the hand is placed on my side again. The visitor stiffens, but relaxes somewhat as I do not move again. The pillows next to my head are pulled away as the visitor brings them closer, and their thumb runs a stroke over my ribs. What would have made me protest at another time in another context at the gesture is mysteriously absent now, and I cannot help but wonder what is so different.

If I dream that night, then I do not remember it, but when I wake up, I am once again alone. Another flower rests on the mattress, this one a white carnation. I put it in the vase next to the rose without a further thought.

* * *

><p>The next week develops a routine. I meet Loki for breakfast every day where I eat and he watches me. Talking is, admittedly, getting easier now we're getting to know each other better. Afterwards, I go back to my chambers to bathe and wait until it is lighter outside, filling the time talking to Ambátt. My wardrobe is expanding every day with a variety of daywear and beautiful gowns to wear come nightfall. I treasure every piece of clothing I am given, and I can only imagine the looks on my sisters' faces if I could show them what has been gifted to me, most especially at my star dress. I have also taken to looking through the books on the shelf in my suite. Despite the fact I can't read a word of them, I enjoy the feel of the thick pages between my fingers and find it relaxing to flick through them. One of the books I have has particularly grabbed my attention because of the hand drawn illustrations. The flowers have been depicted with the utmost care, splashes of watercolour paint brightening their leaves and words surrounding the pictures. I assume they detail on the flowers, but what they talk about exactly is a mystery to me — where they grow, their purposes, medicinal properties, I can only guess. It is a book I often bring to bed at night to look at the pictures. When the sun comes up, I take a walk around the castle grounds, admiring it and the landscape. As Loki said, I find more runes scored on several pine trees, all of them ancient, and all of them bearing the same feeling of foreboding. After I return, I then take lunch in the solar.<p>

This is when I see Loki again, and I find myself beginning to relax around him much faster than I had first predicted I would. It's strange, but it feels _familiar_ being with him, as if this is a pastime we have engaged in for several decades instead of a mere week. We talk of several subjects, from the castle and the surrounding landscape to discussions of other realms, particularly those of Asgard's allies, Vanaheim, Alfheim, and Midgard. I find that he has travelled widely, and I, who has only ever known Asgard's kingdom, listen with the utmost fascination of far-flung places I have only heard of in story. I am told of the sagas of the Vanir, told of the elvish songs that can make even the hardest of hearts cry, and the innovation of the mortals of Midgard. In return, I tell Loki of my family and what we do to earn our way in life. I think it to be terribly dull and tedious, but Loki listens to my every word with rapt attention. I do not know whether he listens to be polite or because he is genuinely interested, I can only guess. But he watches me closely as I talk. I do not think he means to openly stare, and at first, I found it discomforting, but now it is normal. I fear for myself sometimes, fear how I have become so utterly lax around him that I do not complain about these things, but I cannot help but feel that niggle in my mind telling me that something here is speaking of … of home.

Then I return to my chambers to prepare for dinner. Every night I have a new dress made for me by Saumakona and in a variety of styles and colours that compliment me well, but, I notice, I am never given a green dress of any shade. I feel as if Saumakona will make every colour of the rainbow there is to offer before she will make a green dress. In my encounters with her, I have come to ask whether I could have a dress made of the bolt of forest green, but, every time without fail, she will politely refuse my request. It takes me three times to learn to stop asking for it.

Dinner, as always, is wonderful. I find absolute delight in not only trying as much as I possibly can from every dish, but to watch as my belly begins to fill out. Fat is appearing on my bones again — not much, but I am starting to look healthier every day. It will take a fair few weeks before I am anything approaching a comfortable weight, but it is thrilling to start seeing the road I am headed towards. Loki always sits at the opposite side of the table to me, and always he wears his leather trousers backed with the mail and the wolf cloak, but not a crumb of food will pass his lips. I have tried also to persuade him to eat with me, but I have gained no further ground. I promise myself on the third day that I will not stop asking until he eats with me — I grow weary of eating alone in company.

We then retire to the solar for perhaps a half hour where I find myself basking in his company before I turn towards my rooms. Ambátt helps me to bed, and after she leaves, I cannot help but lie awake until my visitor, my companion, comes. I have never seen them, not even from the corner of my eye. Once I tried to roll over, but the urge dissipated as soon as it entered my mind.

_Why turn over?_ I had thought. _It's too dark to see._

When morning came, I was almost certain some influence had been pressing on me. But a part of me came to see the anonymity as a child's game of mystery, and one that I had no desire to solve. I almost drive myself to tears when I think of the person this place has made me become — relaxed and lethargic when it comes to my instinct and self-preservation, to the point where I entertain thoughts of running away so I can gain something of myself back. There is too much magic in this place than I am fully comfortable with. These thoughts always chase me into sleep.

When I wake, there is always a flower next to me — a different kind every day — and I place it into the vase. They must be enchanted, I think, because the petals do not wither; they look as fresh as the day I found each of them. What I have now is the beginning of a vibrant storm of colour. The rose and the white carnation take a centre place, and other flowers, including blooms of forsythia, pink caemellia, acacia blossom, and lily-of-the-valley, surround them. Every morning, I find myself anticipating what my visitor will leave next, and a part of that giddiness makes me feel sick.

I grow torn in hating and loving the castle. I miss my family and I long for the return of my old self, but yet I find simple delight in being in Loki's company, whether it had be talking about Vanir sagas or sitting in silence as I look at pencil illustrations in a book. It is beautiful and peaceful here, and I do not know what to do with myself. I try my best to occupy myself so to offer a form of distraction, so I will not drive myself to madness or depression for the questions in my head.

I am sitting in the solar looking at my book one afternoon when Loki speaks from the opposite couch:

"Sigyn, can you read?"

I look up, startled at first, before I lift my chin. "May I ask why you're interested?"

"You can't, can you?"

I purse my lips and look away, focusing my entire attention once again on the book.

"It's your eyes that give the game away; they don't move as a reader's do," Loki says.

I scoff. "And _you_ can read?"

"Aye. Several sets of glyphs."

I try my best to hide my reaction. Loki, a barbarian frost giant, can read. And in more than one language.

"Is one of them chicken scratch?" I bite out. Loki has put me into a bad mood. I had thought once that being able to read numbers was a talent worthy of the highest of praises and, without meaning to I suspect, Loki has trodden most efficiently on my pride.

"Many languages look like chicken scratch written in their native runes," Loki says. He sighs heavily. "Would you like to learn?"

I stare. "What?" The words sink in. "B-but am I not too old?"

Loki shakes his head. "No. No one's ever too old. I can teach you, Sigyn. The question is would you like to learn?"

I am nodding eagerly before he can finish his sentence. I feel like I am taking everything that has been given to me without ever paying back, but this is one opportunity I will not let slip past me. If Loki demands a price for this later, then I will pay it. Even if he … asks for me? I bite my lip and hope he won't.

Loki tilts his head to the side before he stands. "Come."

I snap the book shut and follow him to the huge table along the edge of the room. Sheets of parchment, inkwells, and quills are set neatly on the table. I wonder if Loki works in here sometimes, doing what I would have no idea, but even so…. He pulls up two chairs.

"Are you left or right-handed?" Loki asks.

"Um, I prefer using my left hand," I say, fidgeting a little.

Loki bids that I take the seat on the right. I do so, and he sits himself on the other one. We are half an arm's length apart, and I can feel the chill of his flesh even from here.

Loki writes runes out on a sheet of parchment and, once he is done, moves his hand to point at the first one at the same time I do. Our fingers brush, and it is difficult to say who jumps the most. It's like the most horrible of clichés, but there is no spark of attraction between us; I jump because his fingers are freezing.

The bump of Loki's throat dips before he says, "First I'll teach you how to read them. Then if you so wish, I'll teach you their meanings in terms of their properties in the practices of _seiðr_."

I'm glad he's ignored the brush, for his demeanour now is business-like and the opposite to mine — blushing and fidgeting.

"The first of the Futhark runes is _Fehu_."

I mouth the rune, tasting the name of it on my tongue. _Fehu_. I learn the sound for it — something that requires me to take my bottom lip between my teeth — and he passes me a piece of parchment and a quill. He teaches me how to hold it, positioning my fingers correctly — and the result is rather uncomfortable; Loki tells me it is simply because I am not used to holding things as I am now — and how to load the ink. Then, I write the rune out two-dozen times. My fingers cramp horribly throughout the process, and my runes are shaking and awkward. But it is halfway through my first dozen when I realise what it is exactly I'm writing.

"This is the rune I saw on the tree," I say, "but this one's backwards."

"The one on the tree's reversed," Loki corrects.

"Why?" I ask.

"That rune was made to enhance and bind _seiðr_," Loki says. "The runes are powerful tools, and their influences and meanings can be affected by how they're written. What may help when a rune is written one way may prove disastrous when marked reversed."

I tuck that information away.

By the time I have finished writing _Fehu_ twenty-four times, my fingers ache and are covered with ink.

"Not a bad start," Loki says, twisting his own fingers. To my utmost surprise, the ink vanishes.

"You can use magic?" I breathe.

"Yes." He doesn't offer any further explanation. "The _Fehu_ rune is the first of the twenty-four runes used by Asgard. When I was learning, I was told that it would do me good to associate objects with the runes so I better remember their sounds. _Froðr._ Feather." He sketches a crude drawing of a feather beneath the _Fehu_ rune on his parchment. Other words run through my mind that share the same sound: _fótr_,_ fróðleikr_,_ firar_.

I voice these to Loki, and we spend the next few minutes thinking of other words starting with _Fehu_, and it becomes a game to see who can think of the longest word. Loki eventually wins with _fóstrbrœðralag _, but I notice as he says it he becomes quiet and withdrawn.

It means _foster-brotherhood_.

"Do you … do you want to stop?" I ask.

Loki starts and looks at me. "No. It's nothing."

Nothing that evidently means a lot to him.

I turn back to my work.

* * *

><p>As the next week goes by, I learn six more runes. I see them sometimes when I peruse the book, and I feel irritated with myself mostly. The words are now so much closer to me, but feel even more inaccessible. I become impatient in my learning, almost begging at times for Loki to teach me more. But he is adamant on me taking my time, telling me that trying to learn a sophisticated skill such as reading too quickly will only exhaust me to the point where I might even start to dread learning. Part of me scoffs at the very idea, but as the days go by, I start to see sense to his reasoning. Sometimes I feel like screaming with frustration simply because I feel as if I <em>can't do it<em>.

_Slowly, slowly, Sigyn_.

One thing that has become more and more obvious to me the longer I spend with Loki is that he is intelligent, extraordinarily so. I had never expected such a thing from a frost giant of all creatures. There has always been some part of me convinced that they were an idiotic people, something to match their barbaric ways. He is kind as well, but his heart is hard; he hides many things, and I wonder sometimes if what he shows me of himself is a façade. Loki shows me also how to write my name, and I spend a fair few days simply writing it over and over, amazed in a way that something so central to who I am is being put onto paper. It feels like the divulging of a secret in a way, putting a piece of my heart on show for the realms to see.

Two weeks after I have arrived at the castle, there comes the first break of my routine. When I come down to breakfast, it is to an empty hall. I freeze upon the threshold, confused. Every morning Loki has been seated at the table, waiting for me. Only Kokkurinn is there, setting out the latest of yet another feast.

"Kokkurinn," I say, touching him gently on the arm as I step up behind him, "have you seen Loki today?"

Kokkurinn turns to me and shakes his head. "I haven't, my lady. It's not like him to be like this."

My heart jumps. "Is there something wrong? Is he ill?"

"I don't know, my lady. But don't worry yourself. No doubt the lord will be here soon."

I am reassured only a little. I sit down and after waiting for ten minutes with no sign of Loki coming, I start eating. It is incredibly lonely. I eat slowly, half-expecting Loki to come through the doors any second, but he doesn't. I finish after a good forty-five minutes and, when it is obvious that Loki will not come, I stand and leave. I shiver as I step into the main stairwell, tucking my hands under my armpits.

_Where is he?_

Kokkurinn told me not to worry, and, despite everything my gut tells me, I do worry for him. I go to the solar; perhaps Loki is there.

He isn't.

I sit in my usual spot on what I now consider, in my head, as my couch. I open my book and look at the pictures, relaxing my expression into one of nonchalance. I look at the captions beneath the flowers, and I find I can read small words — connectors, Loki called them. _Eða_, or _and_, is one of them. But I am restless. I find myself glancing towards the door every five minutes. And then it is every two minutes, and then every few seconds.

_Stop it_, I snap to myself, adjusting my position and curling my legs up beneath me. _Kokkurinn said he would be fine._

I bury my nose in the book, blocking my view of the door with it. I have to give Loki his space, as he has given me mine. But that worry is eating at me. It is silly and irrational, and my breaths become a little shaky. I need to push Loki from my mind. Perhaps he's gone out hunting again. Yes, that must be why.

But hunts can go wrong.

I put my head into my hands, groaning loudly before I stand up.

_Stupid, stupid girl._

I tuck the book under my arm. I will go looking for him, merely to seek an answer as to whether or not he is well. No, I will take the book as an alibi: I'll tell Loki I came looking for him because I want some help with the runes. It will let me hide how my heart has opened to him, and it will help me to pretend that is why I have undertaken this endeavour as well. It allows me also to cling to the fear of him that I still harbour deep within me.

I walk into the corridor beyond the solar, looking left and right. When Loki and I have left the solar together, we always head to the staircase. He always turns to walk down whilst I turn to walk up, so that is where I will start. I go to the stairs and hold my skirts around my knees as I hurry down them. Why is it exactly that I am hurrying? The conflict of my wants and instincts are making my head hurt. When I come to the bottom, there are only three places I can go: the hall, the cavern, and the other door I had seen on the day I had arrived which I guess goes beneath the castle. I go to the third door.

The hinges glide open silently, revealing yet another set of stairs. Blue lanterns have been paced along the tightly constricting walls in even spaces; if not for them, I would have been blind. I pad down the stairs as quietly as I can, my breaths long and even as I try to make them as soundless as possible. The tight grip I have on the book is my only source of comfort.

I go far down, down further than I think even the cavern stairs lead. The air becomes stale, and the smell of the damp is pervasive in my nose. I am relieved when the corridor opens up into a small, rectangular area. Five doors are placed evenly along the wall, and faint light spills out of the second last one. I creep forward, feeling like a thief for how quietly I move. The door is slightly open, and low voices eminent from the room. When I come level, I peek inside.

The room is bedecked in finery despite the gloomy environment outside, but it is finery that has been brought to ruin — it is torn and wrecked. A set of two chairs, a low table, a fireplace, and a single bed, have been shredded by claws, the wood cracked and chipped and the fabric of everything sporting huge claw marks. There are no windows. If I didn't know better, I would have thought a wild animal would have rampaged down here. But I know what happened here straight away: Loki. But why?

Loki is within in the room, sitting in front of a manservant who hovers over his shoulder with some sort of poultice. Loki himself looks terrible; his cloak is gone, flung over the back of the other chair, and as such, there is nothing to hide a rune — no, it is a bindrune; it's too complex to be a standard rune — on his shoulder blade that I have neither seen nor heard of before. I think at first that it is a brand — the skin is dark blue, blistering, and bleeding black — but there is no sign of burnt flesh around the mark. Bandages litter the ground by Loki's feet, stained black.

"… bled during the night. You said if I treated the wound with dejyalok leaf, it would heal. Now it's just worse than it was."

"I was wrong," another voice says. This one is steady, full of authority. I cannot see the speaker through the crack, no matter how much I angle myself. "Loki, forgive —"

Loki snarls, and the manservant puts down the pot he holds, bows, and exits through a side door.

"It's so incredibly easy for you to spout those words yourself, old man, when you are not the one suffering the repercussions," Loki spits after a moment's silence. "You're the one who cast the spell and cut this thing into my back. You two doomed me to this. _Why did you?_" His fingers run over the bindrune, and I put a hand to my mouth to hide my intake of breath as it pulses bright gold. Loki's yelp of pain reminds me of a dog when its tail is stepped upon. He trembles in his seat, and he looks utterly dejected.

"You know why," the other says. "For the good —"

"What about _my_ good?" Loki snaps, gripping his hair and resting his elbows on his knees. His voice is ragged with emotion. "Why should I have to be paying for your poor conduct? Your lapse in judgement? I'm your son…."

My breath hitches, this time loud enough that I can't hide it.

Loki's head snaps around and he leaps from his seat. I almost fall as I scramble back. The door is flung fully open, and Loki stands on the threshold, filling it in his anger. His teeth are bared like a savage beast would do and my heart pounds in terror.

"What are you doing here?" he snarls. "How long have you been here? _What did you hear?_" This is not the person I have conversed with over the past two and a half weeks: this is a frost giant full of the fury I have feared since I can remember, one that is capable of delivering the destruction behind him. I cower beneath his wrath.

"I just … I wanted help with …"

"What did you hear?"

I must force my lips to move. "S-something about bleeding, and spellcasting, and your father cutting something on your shoulder. And dooming you to something; I don't know what."

Loki's face pales with my every word. "What else? _What else?_"

"That's it. I swear that's it. Loki, my lord, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

His breathing eases, but the fire in his eyes doesn't vanish. He turns and storms back into the room, taking up his cloak and wrapping it around his shoulders. He stands by the mantelpiece, gripping it tightly and leaning his forehead on the wall. His arms tremble with anger as he closes his eyes, lips moving silently as he counts his breaths. His fingers trace down the backs of several wooden animals on the mantelpiece, and I think it must be to calm himself.

I swallow and creep forward. I peek into the room, but, to my surprise, Loki is alone. Where is the person he was talking to?

"If I may ask, what is that wound, my lord?"

Loki grimaces, but he doesn't open his eyes. "A reminder."

"My lord, why didn't you show me? I could help —"

Loki slams his fist into the mantelpiece, and the wooden figurines rattle; some fall. "Because it's none of your damn business," he snaps. "Sigyn, leave. _Now._"

But I have to fix this. I have to. "Please, it's the least I can do. Loki, I want to help you." I reach for his arm, but he snatches it back. My lip quivers, and I think of when I did this to him two weeks ago. I feel even more wretched.

"Don't touch me," he hisses. "Just leave."

"I'm worried for you!" I shout. I clamp my mouth shut at once, and Loki looks as stunned as I feel.

But then his face hardens. "You shouldn't worry about me," he says. "It is unbecoming."

"Why? Why is it so unbecoming? Why should I not worry? Is it only because …?" My voice trails off.

"Because?" he breathes. I hear the challenge in his voice, daring me to say what I had only just managed to bite back.

I shrink back as he advances on me, fingers clenching and unclenching. Black blood dots his palm, cut by his claws.

"Is it pity?" he asks. "Pity for the damned creature before you?"

"No, I do not pity —"

"Is this your kindness?" he demands. "To deny what you see me as in your heart?"

I hate how I tremble before him, and so I play the only card I can think of to get me out from under his position of power. "Why bring me here if you are only determined to push me away when I show concern for you?"

The abrupt new direction of the conversation takes Loki off-guard, and he huffs. "I am not something that deserves your concern. I did not tell you about the bindrune for many reasons, one of them being that someone like you should not have to stoop so low so to feel sorry for the likes of what I am: jotun."

"How dare you?" I whisper hotly. "How dare you say that I shouldn't know because of your heritage? What is it exactly that you feared from telling me?"

"That is exactly why! Because I don't want you to fear me!" he shouts. But then he deflates all at once, and his raised fist unclenches to hang loosely by his side. "I don't want you to think of me as barbaric, as a _monster_…. Sigyn please, just go."

It is only then I realise that Loki loathes himself; deeply. I feel like an idiot and incredibly dense for not realising it sooner. The signs were there from the start — his refusal to eat with me, his condemning of the frost giants at every given opportunity, the way in which he strives to treat me as best befitting a gentleman, how he withdrew into himself when I flinched back from him. I have also noticed he does not look at himself — whether to glance at his hands or going out of his way to avoid reflective surfaces.

"Loki…."

I step towards him again, and he steps back, looking at me with flat, angry eyes. "Get out, Sigyn. I will not repeat myself."

"I do not fear you," I lie. If he does not want me to think of him as a monster, then he is doing a very poor job of it. The façade he has put forth to me is cracking, and now I see a well of utter rage and pain beneath his skin. I may not now the whole story for his reasons for such a thing, but I know enough to see that he is a deeply wounded creature. Is it my kindness? To feel pity — _no_, I think, _to feel compassion_ — for him?

"You do not need to lie to me, Sigyn," Loki says. "Just look at me. I am not something that garners pity. None of my kind are. We are creatures of the dark, and those wretched things never should inspire pity."

I would like to say that it isn't true, but it is the word _pity_ that keeps my mouth shut. Outright agreeing with him is sure to get me nowhere fast, perhaps even push him away more seeing as how adverse to pity he is. "Loki," I say instead, "I will not pity you. After my mother's … accident, I pitied her. She told me pity was useless. So I will help you. In any possible way I can. You don't have to tell me what the bindrune is, or who you were talking to or why, but what I would like is some communication between us."

"If you want communication," Loki says, "then you have already hit the nail on the head as to the reason why you're here: to … to _help_ me."

I blink. "How?" He hasn't _told_ me anything.

"Sigyn, I am a selfish creature," he says. The gentle side of him is quickly replacing his anger, and if not for my pounding heart and shaking hands, I wouldn't have thought that he had I had just witnessed the maelstrom of his rage. "Your presence is all I require. I promise that is all I want of you. I want your company in a purely platonic sense. I have been so lonely for so long, Sigyn. You don't know what that kind of thing does to a person."

Proud, stubborn fool. From what I saw, he is strong, yes, but he is not strong enough to bear the weight he insists on taking on his shoulders. But I will wait. If I want to help him as I wish to, then I must first gain his trust. Trust I have just shattered into a million pieces by coming down here and stumbling in on something I should never have known about, much less seen and heard.

"Is that all you wish of me?" I ask, my mouth dry. "Truly?"

"Truly."

But even after days and nights of nothing happening in terms of the company I had been expecting of him — namely in the claiming of my body — and the reassurances from both Loki and the servants that I am safe from harm, I cannot help but still hold some of those thoughts in my mind. Part of me is still convinced he wants more from me than to simply talk with him.

"Thank you," I say. And then, to my utmost surprise, I hug him.

It is a hesitant hug, stiff and awkward for the both of us, but it is simply the best I can do for him right now. And then I let go. The space between us grows cold and unfriendly as I step away, a little flustered. I hadn't planned to do that, and Loki too is somewhat shocked by the impromptu action.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I'll go." I turn to the door, my shoulders hunched. I do not look back at him as I step outside.

"Sigyn," he says just before I close the door. "You're too good to me."

"No," I say, "you're too good to me."

"A monster? Good to you?"

"I promise that whatever you think of yourself, whatever you have done to me within the past day — whether it be shouting at me or snarling," I say, "know that what you have done for both my family and myself are hardly the actions of a monster."

I do not miss the disbelief rife within his eyes as the door clicks shut.

The flower I find on my bed the next morning is a beautiful, snow white tulip.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Isa:<strong> Thank you! I hope you've also enjoyed this update. Loki's reasons for his actions will become clearer as the story moves on._

_**fastreader12:** Thank you for that sentiment! I'm glad you like my work so much that you think that!_

_**Jackalope:** You flatter me! Thank you so much!_

_**Notice to everyone: **I've decided I'll update on the tenth of every month from now on. Having a posting schedule helps me immensely, and the chapters are just too long for me to update every week or two weeks. I guess this means I'll see everyone again next year! Thank you!_


	4. Chapter Four — The Weeks

_It was too close. Far too close. But nothing was found out, and so the bargain stands. The Queen's discontent for the near miss is a constant presence in the back of my mind; her wish to see everything I strive for fall to ruin is astonishingly powerful. But it seems to be a want that will not be sated for now._

_Despite everything, my behaviour then and now, Sigyn opens to me, and the bindrune's power begins to weaken. Utter joy coursed through my blood when I felt the ropes that have constricted my chest since the requirements of the bargain were set, loosen. I felt that I could have climbed to the castle's topmost spire and howled, wolf-like, of my happiness to the north lights. But the reality of the situation is that it was only the tiniest of shifts; I am still bound tight. And more so, I can feel the Queen's frustration that the spells are becoming undone. For the first time in ten years, I begin to have a shred of hope._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four — The Weeks<strong>

* * *

><p>Loki, I learn, is well schooled in the art of sullenness. I think as well I am not helping the situation. Despite my best efforts, it takes three weeks for me to stop jumping around him after what happened below the castle. I tried to talk to him during breakfast, but when he only answered in single words, I learn to stop pestering him. I eat in utter silence and keep my eyes downcast. The only thing could say to him for four days, simply for jangling nerves, was a greeting, and whether or not he will eat with me, the answer to which is always, "No." My reading and writing lessons were halted also, and I spent those four days practising the runes I had already learnt on my own. It was incredibly lonely. On the fifth day, I apologised once more, and we started speaking again in tentative conversations.<p>

"Will you force me to leave?" I had asked a week after, what I refer to as in my head, the Incident. We had been sitting in the solar, and I had been halfway through writing out another set of runes.

"No," Loki had said.

But I was curious. "Can I leave if I wish?"

"I'd be greatly adverse to it." It was the first answer he had given me for days that wasn't a single word.

Part of me had wished to leave just for a second, and purely in the pursuit of spite. But the thought of what might befall my family if I break the bargain I have with Loki, as well the memory of his despair and the debate we had about pity and compassion, squashed the urge out. I will gain his trust again, and I will help him. I strive to be civil.

"I won't leave," I had said. Then, not wishing to break what delicate peace we had re-established, I had continued, "This rune is _Kanaz_, yes?"

"_Kanaz_," Loki had confirmed, taking the change in subject without the bat of an eye.

Other than these two times of day, he speaks little to me, no matter how much I try. And because I have nothing to distract me from it, I start to think more and more of my family, and homesickness eats at my heart.

Those were the weeks when I started to stay outside for longer, for at least I could _pretend_ that I was being lonely by choice. The sounds of the forest were my new companions, as were its occupants. I find it impossible to grow cold because of all my clothes. As such, I find some measures of joy in the life I now lead, full of riches, food, education, and yet certain monotony, boredom, and ever-present fear.

Today, as I crouch down in the snow to write my name there, I am thinking of that conversation in the solar. It was only after the Incident that I had fully realised how little I knew about Loki. When I had asked him if I could have left the castle, his body language had been such that it was clear to me he was used to getting his own way — how his fists had clenched, the tense set of his jaw, and how it had contrasted with the flippant tone he had used told of that. Ambátt's previous comment as well alluding to Loki's past proves true — the world has been cruel to him. He never talks of it, and it may as well have been that he sprung from the aether as he was a few seconds before I saw him on my doorstep the night I left. I no longer fear the savage frost giant: I fear the lack of knowledge I have regarding Loki.

I find it ironic that I fear more what I can see rather than what I cannot; that I fear what is in the light than what is shrouded by darkness. I fear my night companion less than I fear Loki.

A flash catches my eye. I look up, squinting through the trees. When I cannot catch the glint again, I stand, padding through the snow. Although it is impossible, I think that the reflection came from a piece of metal rather than the ones I often see of ice. Branches snap in my face as I push them aside, and I pull my parka up over my nose. My foot finds even ground, uncluttered with twigs and little debris. A path. A stone path. There is something here.

It is a bit of a fight to get through the branches obscuring the path, but I think it worth the effort, for it wasn't ice that caught my eye, or metal — it was glass. A stone wall stands in the middle of the forest, containing a stained-glass window whose half-shattered images tell only part of a story. I am struck dumb.

"What is this?" I whisper to myself.

I run my fingertips over the stone; it is very old. Winter moss grows between the bricks, frozen beneath my gloves. Parts of the stone have cracked from the cold, and it is shiny with ice. The wall is overgrown with moss, and there is a pine growing over the stone in one part, roots straddling the wall like a rider on a horse's back. I move towards the tree, and I can now see that the wall extends beyond my sight and deeper into the woods. I follow it around, keeping one hand on the wall so not to lose it. After about ten minutes, I only just start to see how big the site is. The wall I found is only a tiny part of the building, and it takes more than an hour to walk around what is clearly an outer wall. In its day, it would have matched the castle in size. Half-broken spires reach to the sky, stone laying around their feet. Rotted doors barely hang from their hinges, and more windows than I can count dot the walls. I think also that I catch a glimpse of a silver stag within the ruins at one point too, but it is gone when I try to get a better look.

I am forced to turn back as the light begins to fade, and as the pine growing over the wall comes back into view, I find the path and head back to the castle. My mind is whirling, wondering whom the ruins once belonged to, and who built them.

* * *

><p>"I heard that you found the ruins."<p>

I look up from my plate. As has become the norm, Loki and I had sat in utter silence through dinner, and this sudden break in routine makes my heart skip a beat. There has been tension bubbling beneath the surface between us for days now, for we are both upset in our own ways about what had happened. Perhaps this is something Loki is grasping at to, finally, the break the ice. I take it, for I do not know when another opportunity will come.

"I found something," I say.

I wonder where Loki heard of my discovery today; I had told Ambátt about the ruins, and I suppose the gossip had spread through the staff and found its way to Loki's manservant, Þræll — the one who had been with Loki when I accidentally found him beneath the castle — who had told him.

"Was there anything that interested you about them?" Loki asks. He is surprisingly unlike himself tonight, and I take it as a small victory that I am finally getting a reaction out of him. I feel like I am not running into a brick wall now.

"The windows," I say, twirling my fork in my fingers. "They were stained-glass windows. I have always loved colour."

"Why is that?"

"It makes me happy."

We have never had much colour in my house — everything leaning more towards the drab of grey rather than of the bright colours I so adore. In town, there was a shop that sold dyes, and during the Yule time, the already beautiful displays sitting in the window became even more stunning. Patterns of dye had been spread and splashed inside the window, making swirls and knots the eye had a difficult time of following from a distance. I had become so entrenched by the display once that I had left my family for more than three hours when I was young, unaware they had moved on from the window. Needless to say, I was relieved when we had been reunited.

I wonder now if the house they have moved into, bought with the money Loki has given them, is full of colour. I hope it is.

"Is that why your dresses are so bright?" Loki asks, bringing me from my musing.

I look at what I am wearing now — a gown of deep purple satin etched with silver thread — and twist some of the fabric between my fingers. I smile. "They are made even more beautiful by the colours, yes."

"I can't see them," Loki says so quietly I almost miss his words. I tear my gaze away from the gown, looking at him curiously. "I can only glimpse them, as if they lie behind a mist."

I open my mouth a little, confused. How does he know what I see if his vision is different from mine? He would not know unless he has experienced how I see before. But it is impossible. It must have been a slip of the tongue, or perhaps something he has heard in the past, that Æsir and jotnar perceive colour differently.

But his melancholy mood is left behind in a blink. He gives a bittersweet smile. "I thought that we should explore these ruins tomorrow."

My eyebrows rise. "'We'?" I ask, trying not to sound too thrown by the suggestion.

"We," Loki confirms. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"Not at all," I say quickly.

Loki's smile widens, and he leans back in his seat, crossing his arms at the same time. "Excellent. I haven't explored them."

"You haven't?" I ask, surprised. I'd assumed he would have explored them at some point in the ten years since he's been here.

"No. Perhaps it is a good thing I haven't. We'll be able to rebuild some bridges along the way."

I want to rebuild bridges with Loki — it is what I have wanted to do since the Incident. It's perfect.

I straighten my back, taking a deep breath so to better throw my chest out. "Yes. That would be a wonderful idea."

I ignore the part of me that desperately wants to get to know him better so to satisfy that deep familiarity I feel in my soul being around him. It is that of which I am most terrified of Loki for.

* * *

><p>Although I wake up early the next morning, my companion has already left my bed, and an ounce of disappointment flutters in my chest. The flower they have put next to my pillow is a gardenia. As I put it into the vase, it crosses my mind that I should press them. Enchanted though they may be, I do not know if, or when, the magic will run dry. I have so many books in the suite I can press them all at once and still have enough for the others that are bound to come in the following days. Pressing flowers was something I used to do with Mother, using huge blocks of wood. She loves flowers, and when we could afford seeds, we would plant them behind the house. She taught me their names, how to care for them, and how to press them. I remember when Hnoss was born that she, who always crawled around the house and was only still when sleeping, found the basket of pressed flowers I had put beside the bed the night before. She tore many of them up, and after that, I lost heart for pressing. But now I wish to do so again — these flowers are precious to me.<p>

I push the aching for my family away as I slip out of bed, gulping heavily as I put my feet into my slippers. I creep out of the room and to the suite, the vase of flowers held tight against my chest. After a few seconds rummaging, I find blotting paper in the desk drawers — it's perfect.

I want to press the thornless rose first. I pull down the fattest book I can find from the shelf and open it in the middle. I put four sheets of blotting paper in a spread page — two for each one — and set about arranging the rose to my liking. Then I close the book gently, setting it on the floor as I take down at least a half-dozen more.

Ambátt finds me a near hour later, the floor around me pilled with books with flowers hidden in their pages.

"My lady, may I ask what you are doing in here?"

I feel a little sheepish as I gesture to the flower I am pressing now — a lily-of-the-valley. "I … I didn't want to lose them," I say to my chest.

But Ambátt only smiles and settles herself next to me. "Perhaps, my lady, I can help? You have many flowers."

"But what about Loki? Is he not waiting?"

"No, not yet. We still have a little more time."

Between us, the flowers are pressed and nestled between the pages, and we stack the books on top of each other in three towers that come to my waist.

"Can you help me change the pages soon?" I ask Ambátt.

She nods, giving me another smile. "Come, my lady, we best get you ready for today."

I am dressed in a lightweight garment the colour of a pink sunset, something that is airy and flutters behind me. I wear simple white plimsolls, and they slap against flagstones somewhat as I go downstairs. Loki is waiting for me at the table. It is, as it always is, full of food. A mug of tea sits waiting for me. I come to my chair with a smile, sitting down before reaching for a fresh roll of bread. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Sigyn."

"Are you excited?"

Loki cocks an eyebrow. "I suppose. The sun won't be up for another two hours."

I shrug. Then I ask, "Loki, will you eat with me?"

As he has done every time, he shakes his head. "Sigyn, why keep asking? I won't change my answer."

"I can hope," I say. "Please, know that it doesn't matter to me what you eat."

"If you knew, it would," Loki says, conviction in his tone.

"You eat raw meat," I say. "You've told me."

"There's much more to it than that."

When he offers nothing more, I sigh and bite into the bread. It is still steaming, and warmth floods my mouth. I spread butter inside, and watch as it melts and soaks into the bread.

"So," I say after a while, "what should we do for the next two hours?"

"What ever you want," Loki replies. "You've learnt all the runes, so perhaps we'll move on to the next step today."

"No," I say. "I'm sure it'll take a while, and I don't want to have interrupted lessons." I think of the tower, of the glass ceiling glittering in the sun as I saw it on the first day. "Can we see the castle? I haven't seen the whole thing yet, and I want to see the high tower. At the top."

Loki nods. "What's up there is a multi-purpose room. It can be a dining room, a lounge, and it's been known to be used as a ballroom."

"You've had … guests before?"

Loki shakes his head now. "No. This castle wasn't always in my possession. This was before its initial abandonment." He lifts his chin and says, "This place has been abandoned and reinhabited for centuries, maybe even millennia. What you see now is just the latest in renovations." I raise an eyebrow — I did not think that frost giants worked with glass and sought after soft feather beds. But then again, many things I had previous thought about the frost giants Loki has proved false. "I think that the ruins might have once been a part of this castle as well. Perhaps a minster's or high lady's complex. Perhaps even something belonging to the son of the original lord."

"It's a big complex," I say.

"Seems as if my last theory would be the better bet."

Loki stands the moment I have swallowed my last mouthful, and he crosses to my side, holding his hand out for me to take. After two or three heartbeats, I place my palm in his. This is the first time I have touched him since our fingers had brushed during my first reading lesson, and yet again, the cold of his skin makes me shiver. Loki helps me from my seat, and I give him a small smile, stepping out from my chair to join him at his side.

We walk to the doors, our hands still touching. The lines on his skin are little ridges beneath my palm, and he himself shivers now as I trace them with my fingertips. Are they sensitive? I do it again, and sure enough, his jaw twitches, and his arm gives a little spasm. I smile wolfishly.

"Do it again and I'll leave you here," Loki says, but there's no weight or threatened consequence behind his words.

"Make me," I whisper, and I bring my other hand up, running the tips of my fingers down several lines on his chest. Then I run, bounding up the stairs two at a time. I am laughing as Loki chases after me. My heart is pounding in my chest as I climb stair after stair, holding onto the banister as I turn the tight corners. My plimsolls are terribly slippery, and I discard them after I mount the second floor. I see Loki jump over them out of the corner of my eye as I bolt up to the third floor.

The blue fire of the chandelier's candles flicker as we run past, running in circles as we climb and climb. Eventually, I run out of stairs. There is a wood and metal door in front of me. Two iron rings are set into it, and I grab one to wrench it open.

When I fly into the room, I think for one wild, breathless second, that I have stepped onto the sky. The walls and ceiling are made of glass, and I can see everything. I freeze by the door, and Loki almost barrels into me.

"Woah, woah, Sigyn! Don't stop like that."

But I do not hear him. I am fixated on the north lights and the silver moon, on the galaxies and the stars, on the carpets of forest that stretch into the distance, on the Troll Wall and the river that snakes from behind it into the unknown. I see everything, and I wonder why I have not come up here sooner. It is stunning, breathtaking … glorious.

I sit myself on the floor, pulling my legs to my chest and content to just look and look and look. Loki stands over me for a while before he too sits down, just a little way away, and when I cast a glance at him, his red eyes have turned moonstone white in the light. The mail on his legs casts reflections on the stone floor, like glittering lights seen through a fractured crystal eyepiece.

A silence falls between us as I just drink everything in — every detail, every flicker and shimmer, every shine thrown from the glass pyramid over our heads.

"I can see why this is used as a ballroom," I say after a while. "Just imagine it … dancing here where only the stars can see you. Just imagine…."

"A beautiful thing."

Loki is looking at me, but I do not shudder under his gaze, and he reaches a hand forth almost cautiously, capturing a strand of my hair between his fingers. I swallow as he twirls it around his finger. But I have no urge to pull my hair away, or to get up and leave. I merely take a deep breath and wait. He runs his fingers down the strand, pulling it straight before it eventually bounces back into its natural curl when he releases the end.

I lower my eyes to the room itself. The floor is made of polished black marble, and I can feel the scuffmarks of shoes beneath my fingers that were never quite polished out. What I assume to be a storage room lies near the door, kept shut with a bolt. But, not including the glass ceiling, the most prominent feature of the room is the sunken dance floor lying in the centre — a shallow pit one step deep that is perfectly square. I imagine a room full of courtiers, of noble men in their finest armour and bright hair, spinning ladies in endless circles who wear gemstone dresses and diamonds at their throats. Long dead feet clad in leather boots and steel-tipped heels stamp out the rhythm of a song whose last note faded into silence millennia ago.

"Was this part of the original castle?" I ask, my mouth dry.

"If not the original, then one of the earlier restorations," Loki says. He still looks at me, leaning back on his hands, and his long legs stretched out before him.

"You said this could be a lounge," I say, wiggling my toes. "Why not make it one?"

"Because then it would be nothing special," Loki says. "A spectacular sight becomes nothing when viewed regularly, yes?"

After a few seconds, I nod in agreement. Whatever thoughts I had entertained of moving the solar to here are pushed away with these words. It makes sense, of course, and Loki has only given me back the weight I needed so not to float away on a cloud. Besides, keeping this place heated at this time of year would be a nightmare.

"You said you wished to see the castle," Loki says after almost ten minutes of silence. "This may be a fine place, but there are things to this place other than this room."

"O-of course," I say, getting to my feet and almost overbalancing. My head is craned back still, and I take one long, final look at the sky before I follow Loki out of the door.

The rest of the castle, whilst impressive in its own rights, is dull compared to the top floor. The ceilings soar for metres above our heads, and our bare feet are all but silent as we wind through the corridors. Loki points things out to me — sculptures, nooks and crannies, and even a few secret passages. Several of the walls are made of glass, the windows looking onto different façades of the forest. I can see more detail from these windows, see the shadows of individual trees that look like snow ghosts for all they hold on their branches.

I have noticed also that the western side of the castle seems less friendly, the rooms colder and much more menacing. My feet are chilled for the first time, and I curl my toes, rubbing my arms.

"Are you cold?"

I nod. "Sorry."

"Don't say sorry for something that isn't your fault. Lesson for life." Loki sighs, and he steps a little away from me. "I never come to this wing, so there's no need to waste heat here. And to me, it feels normal; mild, even." He looks at his hands for a few heartbeats before he clenches them into fists and drops them to his sides.

"It's alright," I tell him.

"Another thing," Loki says, "when someone makes a mistake, don't tell them it's alright; it gives them permission to repeat their actions. Say 'thank you' instead." He laughs darkly. "I sound like a mother hen now."

"That you do, but it makes sense." The castle's shadow is faint against the trees, evidence that the sun is beginning to rise. "I should go and change," I say. "I wouldn't want to be hiking around in this." I indicate the dress.

"Of course not," Loki says. "Come. I'll show you back to the main stairwell."

We are mostly silent as we go back to the main stairwell, simply because there is nothing to say. My plimsolls are gone from where I left them, and I turn to Loki, giving him a tiny nod. "I'll be there soon."

"I'll see you at the gate."

I smile back at him as I grab my skirts in hand and hurry up a flight of stairs.

"Ambátt," I call when I enter my rooms, "I'm here."

Ambátt comes from the dressing chamber, hands clasped in front of her. "Excellent, my lady. Your things have been laid out."

"Thank you."

My things have also been freshly laundered, and the undershirts are still warm. They sit snug against my skin, and the heat still lingers as my coat and wolf fur cloak are fastened. I tuck my trouser legs into my boots, tightening the straps before Ambátt hands me the rabbit fur gloves. I'll put them on just before I go out.

"Kokkurinn has prepared something for your lunch," Ambátt says as I head towards the stairwell. "He'll be waiting at the bottom of the stairs."

I bid goodbye to Ambátt outside my rooms, and I run down the stairs, hair flying behind me.

As Ambátt had said, Kokkurinn is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, a sturdy leather satchel held in hand. "My lady," he says, giving to me as I stop beside him, breathless.

"Thank you," I say, smiling before I head towards the cavern stairs.

Loki waits at the bottom, fastening his wolf fur cloak around his neck. He looks up as I come down the stairs, gazing at my boots in approval. "It's good you're not slipping anymore."

"My other shoes weren't as well equipped for the ice as these specially-made-for-winter-weather ones are," I say without missing a beat, lifting a foot to show him the spiked-tread. I feel rather pleased with myself for how quickly I had managed to answer.

Loki snorts and waves his hand. The gate begins to creak open, the hinges protesting loudly. The reflection from the sunlight off the snow is blinding at first, and I throw my arm up to cover my eyes, but the light is still low enough that I have time to adjust. Loki, on the other hand, seems not to be affected by the snow glare. We walk to the gate as the portcullis rises, the chains screeching and rattling as they are pulled tight. There is a high wind today, and bits of ice fly up to bite my cheeks. I shy away, turning my back to the outside.

"Lead the way," Loki says as I pull on my gloves.

When I am ready, I take a breath before I strike out across the open ground. I tighten my cloak around me to cut out the wind, and I pull the hood up too, retreating far within the fur lining. The part of the forest in which I found the ruins lies directly behind the gate, and so we make our way around the castle. My cheeks feel raw by the time we reach the treeline, and it is a relief to be within it. Now that we have left the open ground behind, the air warms a little. It is still deathly cold, but it is not as bad as it was before. I wonder how the air feels to Loki, dressed only in his trousers and cloak. It must be fine, for when he strides past me, I am sure I look far worse for wear.

We walk side-by-side through the trees, following trails left by forest animals over the centuries. They stand stark against the thin layer of snow on the ground, the dirt kicked up by hooves and feet alike.

"This way," I say, tugging on the edge of Loki's cloak when we come to a fork in the trail.

He follows me without comment, and soon the track turns into the stone road. Then I see one of the spires loom from the trees, glittering with coloured glass. I stop in the road and Loki strides forward, running his fingers along the stones. I can hear the scrape of his claws back where I stand. My heart beats a little harder for it, inspired by instinct.

"The front entrance looks to be too unstable to accommodate the doors being moved," Loki says. I look to the main doors. He's right — the arch looks to be held up only by the doors. "We'll go around; find another bit of wall that we can get through."

"The tree," I say.

"What?"

"If you go right, there's a tree that's straddling the wall. It's knocked down some of it."

Loki starts towards it, and I follow him, ducking around branches.

The tree is not hard to find. By the time I can see the base of the trunk, Loki is already squeezing is way through the gap between the wall and the tree. It will be harder for me to get past in my bulky winter clothes. Loki, who is already rapier-thin, has to push himself through. Once he is through, he turns around to me, eyes flicking between the edges of the gap.

"Ah," he says quietly, spotting the problem.

"I might be able to get through if you hold my cloak, outer jacket, and take my satchel —" I start, but my solutions seem to fall on deaf ears. Loki has grabbed one of the exposed blocks and wrenches it from its place with an impressive show of strength. I feel the ground shudder as it hits. The wall groans and buckles as another block is taken away, and it collapses after four more blocks are pulled from place. Loki jumps back as two feet of the wall to the left of the tree tumble to the ground.

"No need for that now, Sigyn," Loki says. He's not even panting, much to my admiration. I had heard that the jotnar were strong, sometimes even stronger than the Æsir, and here is the proof of such a claim before my eyes. "Come on; we'll lose the light if we linger any longer."

I step through the gap in the wall.

The ruins beyond the outer wall are eerie and silent, haunted with memories of ghosts. The sound of a falling block to my left catches my attention, and Loki and I look around as one to seek the source. The silver stag I saw yesterday comes from behind a crumbling wall, and his ears cock forward when he spots us. His antlers look to be made of precious metal, glinting in the sun as they do, and his coat ripples like quicksilver, shining with faint colours under the north lights; it reminds me of an opal ring I once saw when I was very young. His nose twitches before he turns and leaves. I wonder if he is a part of a herd, and whether they too are in these ruined grounds.

"A moon deer," Loki breathes. "I thought I'd never see one in the wilderness. They've been poached to near extinction for their pelts and antlers."

"It's not hard to see why," I say. As soon as I saw the stag, I wanted it for my own.

"Come. If we make our way back to the main gate, then we'll be able to find our way much easier. Let's hope this has a similar layout to the castle."

I follow close behind Loki as he makes his way to the left, back in the direction of the main doors. The flagstones are a little slippery under my feet, covered as they are with ice and snow. So even with the spiked treads of my boots helping me, I slide my feet along the ground. Loki pads forward like a hunting cat, steps silent and graceful.

A fallen wall lies in the courtyard, most probably belonging to the front of the castle — as there are several buildings in the areas whose walls have collapsed — and trees grow from between the stones. They are huge things, pine mostly, but some are things like winter spruce. But what catches my attention about the trees is the biggest one, a fir growing right in front of the great double doors leading into the castle, has a faerie nest in the trunk. The faerie flit around the stones, bright spots of blue and green light for the moon reflected from their wings. They are barely longer than my thumb, their skin a sickly grey, and they are as naked as babes. They pause as we come near, cocking their heads to the side before they raise their wings and hiss softly. Some of them fly towards us, and I huddle closer to Loki. They pick at the edges of my clothes, at the fur lining our cloaks, and the feathers in Loki's hair. Loki snaps his teeth as one of them darts close to his chest, and she in turn bares her own, needle-sharp. Ice crackles over Loki's skin, and the hoard of faerie retreat into the nest, sudden wary.

"Be careful of them," Loki says. "Whilst they're by far from bright, they have a soft spot of mischief."

"So I've heard," I say.

They chitter from within the nest as we draw nearer, but before they can do more than that, Loki touches the wood just above the opening. Ice gathers on the bark, freezing over the hole. I hear muffled screeches and the whirring of wings from within, and tiny fists beat against the ice.

"They'll eventually eat their way out higher up the tree," Loki says over his shoulder. "But it'll take a few days."

"But they won't die, will they?"

"Some will. The greedier ones will turn on those weaker and eat them if they run out of insects. Faerie are gluttonous things."

This again I have heard before. Some of our neighbours at the farm who are more superstitious still leave dishes of milk outside their doors come nightfall for things like faerie and goblins so they would not spoil their food. It had amused me in my younger years to sneak around after dark and drink the oftentimes fresh milk along with Lofn, particularly when food was running short. We'd never told anyone about it; it had been our little secret. Sometimes I'd felt guilty for it, but when my stomach was growling for food and milk was being left out for foul creatures that no longer inhabited our part of the world, the guilt had always lessened. I sniff at the thought, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. I miss my family more and more each day.

Loki heaves the door open, and the scent of rot and decay as well as a general mustiness fills my nose. Loki gags a little, holding his arm to his face and squinting against a stench I can't smell. After a few deep breaths, Loki takes his arm away and holds his palm out flat. Two polished stones sit in it, carved with _Kanaz_ runes. Loki runs his other hand over them, and the runestones begin to glow bright green. The light reaches surprisingly far. Now that the darkness of the place has retreated, I can see a crumbling staircase leading to the first floor — a landing that splits into balconies that run back the length of the entrance hall. Unlike the castle, with its long, single flight of stairs leading up from the entrance hall to the top floor, there is no such thing here. We must venture further in to find access to the upper levels. But like the castle, to the right lies a great hall. Moth-eaten tapestries line the walls, and to the left is a flight of stairs leading downwards. The light just manages to reach the far-above ceiling.

"I like the other castle better," I whisper into the silence.

Loki is still looking around the place, runestones held high in the air. "This is what the other must have looked like once," he says. "These places were once identical. If you look at even the basic layout, they are the same — most probably down to the last centimetre."

"But why build two identical castles so close together?"

"My new theory is that perhaps the original owner wanted to move."

"That's a lot of effort to move only five kilometres north."

"People with enough time and gold on their hands do strange things in the pursuit of comfort. Some do it just because they can."

Loki takes one of the stones and gives it to me. As soon as he tips it into my hand, the light changes colour to a soft, sky blue.

"What —? Why did it —?" I ask, staring.

"We all have some spark of magic deep within us," Loki says, wholly unimpressed with the change. "Blue's a good colour for you, Sigyn."

The only thing I can say is, "Thank you."

Loki points to the top of the stairs. "Up is the way to go, it seems."

The stairs are, to my surprise, wooden, and mildew and rot has made them fragile. Loki and I stay to the sides where the wood is strongest, walking on our toes until we are safely on the landing.

"Will we be able to find our way back?" I ask.

"Here." Loki crosses to the wall, palm glowing with green light, and he presses his hand to the stone. The green sinks in, leaving a handprint. "It'll be a game of following the handprints to get back out," Loki says. "I've also set a spell to keep track of the sun so we don't get caught up in the dark. The direwolves roam these forests at dusk, and I'd rather not end up as wolf food. Which way now?"

"Right," I say on a whim, marching off through another door to a narrow corridor. A cracked mirror covered in spiderwebs hangs on the wall to the left, and I swear I see something move and flee within it out of the corner of my eye.

"Faerie," Loki says as I whip around trying to see what had caused it. "They live in here too, but in lesser numbers."

"How do you know?"

"Like every other living creature, they leave their messes behind."

"That was _far_ too much information."

The next juncture has two choices: either to climb a spiralling staircase, or to turn to the left. The Incident has left me rather unforgiving of tight spaces, as they remind me of the walk to the belowground floor of the castle, and so I turn left. Loki follows without a word. There is another left turn a few metres down the next corridor that is hung with empty picture frames, and as I turn again and glance to my left, what I see takes my breath away.

"Oh Norns —"

The mosaic is huge, well over ten metres tall. The tiles it is made of are not square like those found to the south in hotter lands, but are of varying shapes and sizes that are masterfully put together like a jigsaw. There are many pictures making up this mosaic, possibly they are a narrative. But if they are, I recognise nothing of what is happening. There are Æsir, Vanir, jotnar, and every other kind of race in the mosaics. Loki comes up behind me, and I hear a low hum of appreciation in his throat. Norns if I understand his reaction — the piece is beautiful.

"What are these?" I ask in barely more than a whisper, brushing my fingers over the tiles. Dust has collected on the slight ledges made by the tiles, and it rains down when I disturb it.

"Stories," Loki says. He steps next to me, tracing the outlines of the lowest figures with the tips of his claws. More dust falls as he moves to a barrier of fire. Once again, I cannot read his face to see what he is thinking. "Stories of the beginning — of the Ginnungagap and the creation of the realms. From there came the creation of the first being." I know of the creation story the Æsir told before it was disproved thousands of years ago, but it entertained me nevertheless. Loki's words rise and fall in pitch as he continues his tale. "The first of the giants that emerged from the Ginnungagap was given the name of Ymir, and it is from him all other jotnar are directly descended."

"But …" I frown. This is different to the creation story I know. The one I know tells of three wanderers walking along a grey beach. They breathed life into two pieces of driftwood, and thereby created the first beings.

"These are jotun stories," Loki says, waving his hand to indicate the mosaic, "and so of course they would be the central beings to their own creation."

"Oh." But of course they would be. It was stupid, and a little arrogant, of me to think otherwise. I hate feeling arrogant. "But then what is something like this doing in an Æsir-made castle?"

"Aesthetics, probably." Loki points to the biggest figure on the mosaic — a resplendent man surrounded by aspects of sheer nature. Ice, lightning, fire, rock, wind, water, plant-life, and everything between crown his head and are held in the palms of his hands. "Ymir was the perfect jotun," Loki says. "He had the attributes of all the species to exist, whether or not they still live today. He could command the storms, fell the greatest of mountains, and it is said he created the ice flows of the north. Everything he touched became a paradise for his children, each of whom had a single aspect of their father." Around Ymir's feet stand smaller figures. Each holds a single power around them, reflected in their visage sometimes. I see the frost giant of the lot at once — the only one of the jotnar to bear blue skin. A crown of ice sits on their head. "The realms were theirs, and so Ymir gave each of his children land to rule. For millennia the jotnar ruled the realms, but like all paradises, there was rot on the inside." Loki's voice quietens as he proceeds to the next part of the tale. "Ymir's consort, Audumbla, had another child in secret. It is said he was a child of the salt for how destructive and unforgiving he was, and one full of rage. He was called Buri."

"Buri?" I ask, astonished. "The first king of Asgard?"

"The same," Loki says. He points to the corner of the mosaic, and I must squint to properly see what he is showing me. A single figure squats there — surely a caricature. The representation of Buri is an ugly, fanged thing — hunchbacked and grotesquely twisted like a monster. I realise with a shock that that was how I envisioned the jotnar once, before Loki came into my life.

"The story goes that he was jealous of the jotnar," Loki says, "for although he was born of the consort of the first being, he possessed none of the gifts displayed by Ymir's children. Jealousy drove him in his life, and he sought to destroy everything that the jotnar held precious. If his mission were not completed in his life, then it would be a quest every son of his line would undertake until his envy was satisfied, and all that was left of the jotnar was dust.

"So began the hatred between the Æsir and the jotnar, something they still hold towards each other today. Species were eradicated; burnt from existence. What had once been a race boasting hundreds of kinds, the jotnar were reduced in variety and number until their race were nothing but former shadows if themselves. Buri did not succeed in his quest, and so his son, Borr, took up the mantle, as did his son."

"Odin," I breathe. I try to find him on the mosaic, but it must precede the Allfather's rule — there is nothing there of the story.

I think Loki looks troubled as he continues. "But unlike his predecessors …" He stumbles before he says, "Odin held far more ambition. In Jotunheim, he is called Furious One. He inspired to end the life of the source of it all, to chop of the head of the snake — he went after Ymir. With his spear in hand and no one but his brothers at his back, Odin sought out the first being. When they met in battle, it was a terrible thing that lasted many days and nights. But after the deaths of both of his brothers, Odin, severely weakened by many wounds, slew Ymir, aided by magic he stole from the Vanir. It is said Ymir bled so much that many of the survivors of the attacks led by Buri's house over the millennia drowned in the blood of their forbearer. Those who did survive — the large majority of them being storm, fire, mountain, and frost giants — fled to the corners of the realms, staked out their land, and swore to defend it until the Æsir lay dead or the cosmos burned. The fire giants took the land of Muspelheim to the south, and the others came north to Jotunheim, claiming it for themselves. The frost giants control most of the land, whilst the storm and mountain giants reign further south amongst the rocks."

"Do they inhabit the Troll Wall?" I ask.

"Some do," Loki replies eventually. "But the storm and mountain giants themselves are a dying species. Few remain." I think that he does not care either way about the survival or death of those jotnar; his tone tells me so. "Some roam around Midgard, driven south by desperation. They used to be more numerous in the old days when Odin held lesser power over that realm. But, as I said — few, if any, remain. They've been slaughter over time, but all in the name of protecting the humans, of course." There is definite bitterness in his voice, now.

I don't know if I should say I feel sorry or not — for as the story goes, that would mean Loki shares blood with both storm, mountain, and all other giants — but he has turned away from the mosaic. I can only see his profile, but from what I see, his face calm and remorseless.

"It's quite a creation story that it has continued its history up to such a point in time as ours," I say.

"I doubt it's true — just like the story of how the Æsir came to be isn't," Loki says. "I believe it to have been modified for propaganda purposes during the Asgard-Jotunheim War. It's the more likely reason why it is as it is."

"Did you ever hate me?" I blurt. When Loki turns to face me, I continue, "I mean, you said the Æsir and the jotnar have hated each other for millennia. I hated you, once." The confession makes me feel ashamed of myself. "It would make sense if you felt the same. Or even if you still feel the same."

Loki swallows thickly. He looks as if he is making a huge decision, and he says, in nothing more than a whisper, "Of course I did."

I cannot decide whether or not I believe him.

But the thought is driven away as a faerie bites me hard on the ear. I drop my runestone, and it clatters across the wooden floorboards as I shriek and slap the faerie away. The thing is sent whirling through the air, chittering angrily. Loki lets loose a guttural roar and swipes at it, leaping after it as it speeds away. Magic flies from his fingers, and it hits the faerie square in the back. It crashes into the wall with a squeal.

Loki stands on it, crushing it beneath his foot. "Vile things," he spits. "Wastes of air." He twists his heel a final time before he turns to look at me. His snarl melts away and he crosses to me, reaching out for my ear.

But as I move my foot, the wooden floorboards creak ominously before they crack right down their centres. I scream, "_Loki!_" as I fall, and Loki grabs for my hand. He misses my reaching fingers by a hair's breadth.

_Oh Norns oh Norns —_

My feet hit stone barely a heartbeat later. I tumble over, my legs crumpling beneath me. My hip hits the ground, jarring painfully, and I gasp in shock.

"Sigyn? _Sigyn?_"

"Loki!" My voice echoes loudly. I wince as I stretch, clutching at a fallen block of stone as I pull myself up onto wobbling legs.

"Sigyn? Are you hurt?"

"I'm alright. It's not that far." I only fell ten metres — fifteen at the absolute most — nothing to an asynja like myself. "I'm fine." Even now, just standing up, my leg feels better. My ear is the hurt bothering me the most right now. It throbs unpleasantly, and I wonder if faerie bites are poisonous. I look up, and I can see Loki's silhouette through the gap, red eyes shining in the dark like embers. I shift my weight, intending to ask about poison, but I nearly topple over again as something hard and round rolls beneath my foot. I clutch at the fallen stone. "Loki, light please?"

A few heartbeats later, my runestone is sent down to me. I catch it, the green light changing to blue at my touch, and I gasp at what I see. My hand flies to my mouth.

Skeletons. Æsir, Vanir, or elf skeletons — I am not sure what, exactly. There are dozens of them arranged in a circle of pitted bones with their heads put together, and their arms folded over their chests. The beautiful, once brightly coloured mosaic they lie on is cracked with age. I notice that not even the faerie have touched them.

Above me, I hear Loki's intake of breath, and the wooden floor creaks as his grip on the broken planks tightens. But now that I am over the shock of seeing them, I crouch down to take a closer look. The bones are not pitted with age as I first though, but they are carved with runes — hundreds of thousands of them weaving a complex web of magic. I wonder if they are meant for the protection of the people, to help them into a further afterlife. It is strange, but fascinating at the same time. If they once wore clothes, they have rotted away.

"Don't touch them," Loki says sharply.

I don't, but I cannot take my eyes off them. I count well over fifty, and one of them I guess to have belonged to a child — they are the smallest of the lot, barely taller than Brúðguminn. "What are they doing here?" I whisper. "Did you know they were here?"

"No," Loki says. From what I can see, I would say that he is looking at them with curious detachment.

I turn my attention back to the bones. "Do you think they've made them happy?" I ask. "The runes carved into them?"

"What do you think they're for?" Loki asks.

The question holds the odd reminiscence of a child's game of pretend, but I hold none of that curiosity; I have reverence. "I think they are there to help them in what ever afterlife they believed in," I say.

"Then I think the runes have made them happy," Loki says. "Come, Sigyn. Leave them to their rest."

I turn, looking up to him. Loki's hands are pressed against the wall, and his face is twisted in effort as a staircase made of ice creeps towards me. As soon as it touches the ground near my feet, Loki grimaces and pulls his hands away from the wall, but there is a gap of a metre and a half between the top of the stairs and the corridor.

"I'll pull you up the last bit," Loki says, sitting back on his heels. His face looks a paler blue than usual.

I didn't realise how difficult ice summoning could have been. What I saw in the courtyard with the faerie nest there, it had looked easy for him, as well as the ice he used when he came to the farm. It is then I wonder, for the first time, why Loki is so small for a frost giant. There must be a reason, and perhaps that reason is why this display of ice shaping was a bit of a struggle.

I climb up the stairs on my hands and feet, finally standing on what seems to be a treacherously balanced tower. But it is stable enough, I find. When I am fully upright, I grab Loki's offered hand. He hauls me up through the gap with ease. If I had not seen it for myself, I would have been none-the-wiser to his before moment of weakness.

"Are you alright?" he asks yet again as soon as I'm on solid ground.

"I'm fine," I say, scooting away from the gap and back onto stone. "My ear stings, but otherwise, I'm fine."

"Here." Loki brushes his fingers over my ear. A hot tingling sensation spreads through it, and I squirm, fighting to bat at it. When the feeling fades, my ear no longer throbs in pain.

"You …?" I am lost for words. "Thank you."

"It's nothing," Loki says. He is looking at me in the strangest way.

"I was going to ask if faerie are poisonous," I say.

"They're not," Loki says. He turns his head suddenly, tilting it a little to the side. "We should go," he says. "We'll be able to make it back in time if we leave now."

"Let's, then. I don't fancy being wolf food."

Loki laughs at the echo of his words before, and, sticking to the edges of the floorboards, we follow his handprints back to the entrance.

Afterwards, there is something intensely satisfying about listening to the angry screeches of the faerie trapped in their nest as I eat honey-slathered bread and drink hot tea straight from the flask for a late lunch.

* * *

><p>"We <em>have<em> to go back tomorrow and get further inside," I say over dinner that night. I am eating smoked salmon and diced vegetables that had been soaked in vinegar tonight. As usual, Loki eats nothing, but he does have a mug of cider in front of him from which he occasionally takes sips. "Please, Loki."

"Maybe," he says. "Sigyn, that places holds much more danger than I thought it would."

"Oh where's your sense of adventure?" I ask. "I'm fine — the fall didn't break my ankle, and I'm not lying on the ground with my mouth frothing with poison either. What's the problem?"

But Loki is only laughing, a thing from deep within his chest that has forced his head back. I am not amused, staring at him and silently demanding both for an explanation as to what he finds so funny about me, and to stop.

Eventually he does, and when he sees my thunderous expression, says, "You've changed since your first night here. You were so timid I thought that I went so far as to think the very sight of me would have you faint at any second from fright. You are bolder, now."

"I am stronger than you paint me as," I say, jabbing at a piece of fish. "I just became more confident."

_And more comfortable in your presence_, I add silently.

"Besides, our adventure today has put me into a good mood. If you like me as I am right now so much, the way to keep me in such a mood is to promise we'll go again tomorrow."

Loki is grinning, scratching his eyebrow in an effort, I think, to hide his amusement. I bite the pad of my thumb, smiling around it as I look at him expectantly. "Perhaps if we find more mosaics, you can tell me more stories," I say.

"Even if they are jotun ones?"

"The best kinds of stories are ones you haven't heard before." I am waiting for his answer, expectant of a positive outcome.

It comes:

"Tomorrow, then."

I finish my fish and get to my feet, excitement burning hot in my chest. "Thank you," I say. I round the table and hug him as he too stands. Loki only hesitates a second before he cautiously squeezes me back, and I can feel his smile in my hair.

My cheek is soon chilled pressed as it is against his chest, and I have to let go. "Cold," I say in explanation. I stretch my mouth into a purposely awkward grin. "Sorry."

Loki presses the back of his hand to my other cheek, and I gasp at the sudden cold, jumping back. "For earlier," he says, an affectionate growl — if it could be described as such — colouring his voice.

I swat at his arm. "You're horrible."

A purr sounds in his throat, but it is choked off almost immediately. Loki swallows and looks away, a muscle clenching in his jaw.

I put a hand high on his chest by his collarbone, and I whisper, "Loki, do it again."

His eyes are dark, and I think for a few seconds he will not. But then he does, and the vibration travels along my arm, within the very bone. I lay my ear against his chest, listening to it and utterly silent. I only pull away when Loki cuts the purr off a half-minute later.

"Thank you, Loki," I say again. He smells of winter mornings, of the faint touch magic leaves upon the air, and underlying it all is a deeply masculine scent that sets my nerves afire. My breath hitches at that and I pull as casually as I can away from him. The smell is still clouding my nose, and I try to wipe it away with the back of my hand. "I might go up now," I say. "I'm tired."

"Very well," Loki says. Then softly, "I'll see you tomorrow." His fingertips linger on the back of my hand before I pull away.

A part of me deplores about getting in the bath that night. Ambátt has put a variety of well-complimenting scents into the water, and the steam that clogs my nose effectively erases Loki's scent. I imagine that I can still smell it on my hands — left purposely dry — as I sit in the bath, and I hold them to my face, taking deep, long breaths as I attempt to imprint it into my memory. Again, I have lost track of the time, for Ambátt knocks upon the door and asks after me.

"I'm coming!" I call, raising myself from the tub and pulling the plug. I wrap a towel around myself and another around my hair.

I am very chatty this evening, and I talk to Ambátt about what Loki and I saw today. Every time I say his name, Ambátt's smile only widens, and the brush strokes she pulls through my hair seem to be pressed deeper and are drawn slower. I tell her about the faerie, the mosaic, and the chamber I fell in to.

"You should have seen them, Ambátt," I say, looking at her in the mirror. "There were so many of them. I wonder now if it were something macabre — something like a ritual sacrifice." I shudder at the thought. Surely not. It could have just as easily been something like a strange, ancient catacomb, the skeletons placed there over years and years.

"How terrifying," Ambátt says. Her voice is quiet, and I wonder if I should have mentioned the skeletons. Perhaps she finds such things distasteful.

I pull my brushed hair in front of my eyes and fiddle with the ends. "Thank you, Ambátt. This is perfect."

"Would you like me to plait it?"

"Yes please. That would be wonderful."

Ambátt works quickly and efficiently, and soon I am beneath the furs of the bed, and she is drawing the curtains across the window.

"Goodnight, my lady," she says as she deposits the coals in the warming pan back into the fire. She closes to door carefully, leaving me with troubled thoughts. I am certain that I have upset her, and I am determined to apologise in the morning. I turn over onto my side, pulling the furs around me and glaring at the wall.

The tension in me uncoils when I hear the door open sometime later and my visitor pads over the flagstones. They climb onto my bed with a sigh and readjust themselves as they do every night. I bite my lip, listening to my heart beating against my ribs. It is utterly calm, very unlike how it hammered the first night this happened. It is a traitor to me, showing the world just how unafraid of this person who climbs onto my bed and has slept next to me every night for the past seven weeks.

But as the hand is once again placed on my hip, some part of me is disappointed that it isn't icy cold. That it isn't Loki. I swallow, scared about that flash of bitter disappointment. I know of the frost giants, have been told of the devastation of the war a millennium before, and I am suddenly so very angry with myself for hoping that this warm companion pressed against my back is one of them. It is probably one of the servants, someone like Þræll. I wish for my traitor heart to pound like a hunted rabbit's. Tears prick my eyes, and I am careful to wipe them away so not to disturb my visitor. I don't want their hand to leave my hip, for them to stand up and leave and take their comforting weight off my mattress with them, perhaps forever. I am afraid that my movement will spoil this moment.

But they are still at my back when I fall asleep.

My flower come morning is a petunia.

* * *

><p>I am bouncing on my toes as I wait for Ambátt to finish doing my dress up at the back. It is a sunshine yellow thing, made of a blend of cotton and silk. The result is a fabric that feels like the wind kissing my skin.<p>

"My lady is eager for breakfast this morning," Ambátt notes.

"The sooner breakfast is over with, the sooner Loki and I can go again," I say.

"Perhaps that would be true if the sun came to these lands earlier."

"It's starting to," I say. "Winter is almost over."

"Perhaps that is true for the more southern regions," Ambátt says, "but it will be a little while yet before the snow begins to melt here."

I nod. Despite how taken I was with the scenery when I first got here, the snow is starting to become a nuisance. I still think it utterly beautiful, but it is a chore to go outside, and many of the areas around the castle windows are freezing, despite the heating system.

Ambátt finishes with the dress and steps back. "There, my lady. All ready."

I twirl around on the spot, watching the hem flare. "Tell Saumakona that her work has once again astonished me," I say.

"I shall, my lady. Your shoes."

I slip into them before I exit my rooms and hurry down the stairs, jumping them two at a time. I fly into the dining hall just as Loki sits in his seat. He looks surprised at how quickly I have come. "Sigyn. I wasn't expecting you for —"

"As I said before, adventuring in the ruins will put me into a good mood," I say, sitting at my chair and reaching for slices of toast cooked in butter. Loki had called it _French toast_, something he had come across on his travels to Midgard. I gesture to the table with this thought. "Please, Loki, eat something."

"No, Sigyn," Loki says with a sigh. He drums his fingers on the table and smiles at me. "If the architecture of that castle was indeed the same to this one, then the underground chambers will be just as extensive. We looked above ground yesterday, and from the lack of a spire, I'd say we would have soon run into a dead end. Let's go the other way today."

"Done," I say, finishing the last bite. Kokkurinn appears at my elbow then, a teapot in hand. He sets down a glass teacup and a matching saucer and what he pours into it is a golden-brown liquid. I look at it, curious. It smells wonderful.

"It's a tea," Loki says, "made of saffron and cinnamon and … Damn, I can never remember the last ingredient." Loki looks to Kokkurinn for an answer, but the man merely grins.

"You'll need to guess that one," he says, dropping a spoonful of sugar into my cup and stirring it in. He gives me a wink.

Loki growls low in his throat, evidently frustrated. Kokkurinn walks back into the kitchen with a good-hearted laugh.

I pick the teacup up and blow the steam away from the surface.

"Regardless of what's in it," Loki says, "it helps warm from the inside; keeps you awake as well. It tastes wonderful."

"Will you not have a cup?" I ask as I take a sip. It is very sweet, and Norns, it's the best tea I've ever tasted. I have to fight not to slurp the entire thing down in one. I can taste the cinnamon, something I recognise from my hot chocolate, but this is the first time I have tasted saffron. As such, I have no chance in guessing what the last ingredient is.

I eat more toast and some chicken sausages flavoured with herbs, making small talk with Loki. Eventually, the last morsel is cleared away, and my stomach feels pleasantly full.

"I'll be back soon," I say rising from my seat.

Loki nods, and I give him a quick dip of a curtsy before I leave. I climb the stairs, eager, and am near the second floor when I hear the low murmur of voices deeper within the castle. I pause when I hear my name.

"… feel it, can't you? Sigyn is making her nervous."

"Of course she is."

I sneak through the corridors, and I almost stumble on Ambátt and Þræll tucked away in a corner. I feel bad for eavesdropping — again — but what has caught my attention is the anonymous _her_ they have spoken of. I am not who they were referring to.

"You wouldn't think, would you?" Ambátt says a moment later, laughing under her breath. "Loki the Liar has a heart after all. Have you not seen it? He is falling for her."

I don't hear the last part. My mind is fixated on the epithet: Loki the Liar. The name angers me. The anger comes from nowhere, and I'm shocked at it. But it _feels_ familiar, but I couldn't for the life of me tell why it did. It was like a half remembered recollection of something from when one was a child: fuzzy and distant, but rooted in reality. The moment, however, passes. I must have shifted my foot or made a noise of some kind to alert the two of my presence, for Ambátt is suddenly at my elbow.

"My lady Sigyn, is there anything I can do for you?"

"I —" I fumble for something to say. "I was lost. I saw you, and I was just going to ask if you could show me back to my chambers."

"Of course, my lady." Ambátt takes the lie as it is. She curtsies and beckons me to follow her.

I am in a daze, and am only brought out of it when Ambátt stops outside my rooms. "My lady, Kokkurinn has prepared —"

"Ambátt," I say quietly. A fog has spread over my mind. "Please tell Loki I will not be joining him today. I have changed my mind. Tell him I am sorry for the inconvenience, and that I wish not to be disturbed for the rest of the day." It is my first order of her that has not had a single hint of hesitance in it. It is entirely unlike me, but at that moment, I simply cannot bring myself to care about the coldness of it.

I think Ambátt's smile falters a fraction, but she only gives me a deep curtsy and says, "Yes, my lady."

I nod and retreat inside my rooms, sliding the key into the lock. I hear the mechanism click into place, shutting me away from the world.

* * *

><p>The conversation between Ambátt and Þræll has stirred the insecurities within me again. Liar. Loki the Liar. It is all I can think about for the next few days. I am so upset the first night after I heard them that when my visitor came to my bed and placed their hand on my side, I jerked away from them. I regretted it almost at once, for they did not put their hand on my side again. I found myself missing it immensely. When the morning came, I woke to see a purple hyacinth.<p>

This newfound behaviour of mine begins to affect me physically, too. Dark, bruise-like shadows are a permanent fixture beneath my eyes, and I am beginning to lose weight. It is like a stone rolling down a hill — hard to stop. My newly gained soft curves start to vanish, my hip bones protruding more and more every day, but despite it and Ambátt's fretting and worry, I do not feel hungry. I constantly feel exhausted and lethargic, and some days it is an absolute chore to get up and go to breakfast. Part of me wonders if I am depressed, and deep down, some part of me knows that the answer is yes.

And always, always, I think of my family, my mind lingering on them for hours upon hours.

I think of Gefjun, and wonder if she has thought of the possibility of marriage now that she will have a sufficient dowry.

_If Loki kept his promise_, a voice whispers deep in my mind.

I wonder if Lofn, the artist of the family and who dreams to be educated enough to go to university one day and eventually teach art herself, has hired herself a tutor to help bring her dream to life.

_But of course, it all depends on if Loki has kept his promise._

I think of foul-tempered Vár, of radiant Syn, of quirky Sjöfn, and of sweet little Hnoss, clothed in silks and satins and their stomachs full of the same rich, creamy food I have been treated to.

I think of Mother and Father, wondering and hoping that they have found everything they needed, be it funds or shelter or food, to not only see my sisters through the winter, but to help to start rebuilding their lives.

_Yes, but only if Loki's promise is kept._

Again and again the thought comes up, and eventually the only one choice I have to make sure if Loki has indeed kept to his sworn oath is to see it with my own eyes.

I must go home, if only for a visit. I have to; otherwise, I fear that I will never make it out of this rut, or that I will never find peace of mind again. I have to ask him.

But I wait. I wait until a day comes that it feels right that I can ask this big, almost scandalous, thing of him — it could endanger the struck bargain. I make my best effort to launch myself back into things, to smile and find again the Sigyn I was after I returned from the ruins with Loki almost three weeks ago, but it is so difficult.

But I am a terrible actress, for Loki notices something is wrong. He acts on the day that I decide to.

It is a day on which I finally feel safe to ask Loki my heart's greatest desire, and I rise before Ambátt comes to greet me. I cross the atrium to my rooms to my dressing suite, opening the wardrobe and scanning my eyes across the dresses within. Several of them do not fit me as snuggly as they once did for my rapid loss of weight, and so I select the dress that I wore to my first breakfast here — my star dress. Ambátt finds me some time later struggling with the ridiculously complicated lacings on the back, and I am almost sobbing with frustration at my inability to do them up myself. She says nothing as she comes to help me.

I stand with my hands pressed flat against the wardrobe so to steady myself when my bodice is pulled tight. "Thank you," I say softly when she is finished.

"Of course, my lady," Ambátt says. She gets my shoes just as silently as she had been when tightening the laces.

I am quiet as I go down to the main hall, even making an effort so my shoes do not click on the stone. My eyes are fixed on the floor. When the doors to the hall open, I flick my gaze up to see Loki in his seat, but my eyes fall away again just as quickly. I am the same little bird who ate here on my first night when I perch on the edge of my seat, smoothing the imaginary wrinkles from my lap.

"Good morning," I say in barely more than a whisper.

"Good morning." Loki's voice is like a shout compared to mine. I reach for a bread roll, nibbling on it for a few moments.

"Sigyn." I look up at Loki, and I am almost startled to see how concerned he is. He rises from his seat and comes to stand next to me as a respectable distance. I can hardly remember the night after we had explored the ruins, the one where we had laughed and laid our hands over each other, and my ear against his chest.

Loki passes me a rolled up piece of parchment, held together with a rawhide cord. It is very thick and heavy in my fingers, somewhere halfway between paper and cloth. "Open it," he says.

I pull the bow undone, and unroll the scroll. Drawn upon the parchment is a straight line. One end has been crooked to the left, and at the other is a hollow circle. Three short strokes intersect the line.

"What is it?" I ask, turning the parchment over in my fingers.

"A _svefnthorn_ — a sleep thorn. It'll help you sleep better if you put it beneath your pillow."

"Thank you," I say. A part of me is flattered that Loki has not only noticed my sleeplessness, but had sought to help me, even after I have been so very rude to him over the past weeks. I wonder bitterly if the _svefnthorn_ will help me forget my homesickness. The thought sparks my mind into action. This is the perfect opportunity to ask him, and so I ride the wave.

"I haven't been sleeping well for a while," I say, fiddling with the _svefnthorn_. "I … Loki. This castle it's … it's beyond anything that I thought it could be. When you came that night, I thought you were going to take me to Jotunheim to have your way with me as you wished, and maybe even kill me. But even with everything that you've done for me … I … I miss my family. I want to go home."

A long silence falls.

"Only for a little," I press on, trying to make amends. "I promise I'll come back."

Loki is frozen where he kneels. He is still for a few more heartbeats, but then his face twists and he rises fluidly.

"Loki!"

I half-rise from my seat, reaching for him, but he is gone with a whirl of wolf fur.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Guest:<strong> Thanks!_

_**Goblin Girl's Cast Members:** Thank you!_

_**fastreader12:** Thank you, and DFTBA right back at you!_

_The castle ruins are based on the Hogwarts castle in the _Chamber of Secrets_ game. I played it for hours and hours when I was very young and, well, I can still picture it well in my mind. Thanks for reading (although I feel this chapter is hardly my best), and I hope you enjoyed it!_


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